In the Hall of the Mountain King
by Asso
Summary: After "Destiny"and "Human Mood". Trip and T'Pol are officially a couple, and this fact…
1. Chapter 1 The Prologue

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso

* * *

**

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genres:** angst, adventure, romance, drama

* * *

**In The Hall Of The Mountain King (**_**The Tenth Commandment**_**)****  
****AKA "T'Pol Delivered", AKA "The Frenzy of Trip" **

**By Torquato T(ASSO), AKA Ludovico ARI(OSCAR), AKA Asso

* * *

**

**Rating: **PG-13, I think, at least here, but later it will be different.

**Genre: **Some Action and Drama and Adventure, and - obviously - a big deal of Romance and Love.

**Summary: **After "**Destiny**"and "**Human Mood**". Trip and T'Pol are officially a couple, and this fact…

**Spoilers: **All and nothing. Many suggestions have been stolen here and there.

**Disclaimer: **Star Trek: Enterprise is owned by Paramount, not me. No infringement intended, no profit made.

* * *

_**Some issues for this story: **_

1. This time I've attempted something different from my usual way.  
This time no physical intimacy, and not even angst.  
This time a little bit of ACTION, and a morsel of MYSTERY!  
But, obviously, I can't betray myself. So ROMANCE, too! Surely! A very big deal!  
_Please, be kind: Action is difficult for me to describe, but I wanted to try. _(**I'm keeping my fingers crossed. **)

2. In spite of what I said, I have to warn you: we are only at the beginning, the full-blown action doesn't start on this chapter; it's the overture, the prologue, and here (with a hint of humour, I hope) you will be brought slowly toward the real core. Here I attempt to show to you the scenario and the atmosphere, the why and the wherefore, and also –I hope– to make you foretaste a little bit of that mystery I would like to put in this fic. And all that through Archer's eyes, because I think he's the most logical person to display Trip and T'Pol new status after "Destiny" (Yes! I'm perfidious. A little.), because this new "status" is the engine of the present story. **I THOUGHT IT'S WAS BETTER I WARNED YOU ABOUT ALL THIS! **

3. This story can be read without knowledge of my stories, "Destiny" and "**Human Mood**". However, I suggest to you to read them, if you want fully understand this present Fic.

4. The words in italic between (*___*) represent the thoughts, yet again.

5. Thanks: To **justTripn**, who first took a glance at this Fic, and to **Linda**, above all, for helping me express myself in a language that is not my first language and for their clever editing.

**I hope you enjoy my effort. **

Ah! One last thing: Strange title, isn't it? Well, if you want, you can find some explanations if you would like to learn something (just in case you don't know already them) about _Jerusalem Delivered_ by Torquato Tasso (T-_**asso**_ - eh eh) and about _The Frenzy Of Orlando_ by Ludovico Ariosto (Ari-_**osto**_: Ari-_**oscar**_, eh eh eh), with a wink at the Edvard Grieg's great piece _In The Hall Of The Mountain King. _(As for the meaning of that _**The Tenth Commandment…**_ Well! You will see!)

* * *

They say HE is sleeping a sleep, which is vigil.  
They say HE is watching, and hearing, and listening.

They say He's observing,  
That no thing,  
No creature  
Can elude him.

They say HE is sitting,  
Inert and remote,  
Twisted in chains,  
On his ice throne,  
In the deepest frost,  
In the blackest dark,  
In the most leaden hush,  
Yonder in the depths.

Alone.  
Outlying.  
Stirless.  
Silent.

They say HE is thinking,  
The Black Sire  
Who no longer has heart,  
About his past,  
Which won't ever return.

The Obscure, Sinister, Grim Lord.  
The Shadows' Monarch.

The Gloomy, Tenebrous, Doleful,  
Miserable Death's Sir.

Yonder.  
In the depths.  
In the dark.  
In the frost.  
Where there're no moves.  
Where there're no sounds.  
Where all is dead.

They say HE is waiting.  
Not dead, not alive.  
With inhuman patience.

He is waiting.

For his moment to arrive.

* * *

_**From an ancient Bannerda epic **_

**T'Pol **, from HARBINGER: "_Perhaps Triannon mythology has a basis in fact._"  
Mh… Perhaps all mythology has a basis in fact!

* * *

**Prologue

* * *

**

"Ashayam, you must rest."

"Oh c'mon, darlin', don't…"

"You must rest, Ashayam."

The words resound clearly behind us, perfectly audible, and I can't help but grin, exchanging an amused look with Malcolm, whose eyes display a sparkle of indulgent fun, even while his face maintains a stern professional appearance.

No need to turn around to be aware of the expressions, which, in this moment, are surely displayed on the faces of my two Commanders, of my two — I breathe a long sigh — _bonded_… Commanders.

I, all of us, began to settle into the situation, but certainly it's strange. Well, on second thought, it is not so strange that they are a couple. I was the first,… mhhh… maybe the second after the Doctor, to be personally informed of the intricate relationship between them; and, besides, I had long suspected that something was happening, underground.

Actually many of us, and – I chuckle lightly to myself – markedly Hoshi, had been long aware of the love story between my friend and my First Vulcan Officer, even if – I must admit – it hasn't been easy to accept the fact that that cold Vulcan female who boarded my ship that day has become the... amiable and… enamoured… mate – (*_Bond mate, they say_*) – of that antipole of her that my Chief Engineer is. Mh, maybe only _apparently _her antipole.

And even if — I sigh again — it hasn't been easy... to repress my jealousy pangs.

Strange and unforeseen is the way she now freely and easily, nearly unashamedly one could say, displays her feelings for Trip. Her endearment. And her love.

Definitely it's difficult to think her countrymen would approve of her behaviour, very probably of her choice itself, but actually all this is simply… logical, as she told me personally.

I smile to myself, remembering her own explanation.

"_Acting otherwise would be totally illogical, Captain_".

Well! I'm sure that logic can't explain everything, and that there is in her words a not too successful attempt to justify with logic what logic cannot explain. Oh yes, she's always a Vulcan, after all, and surely she can't betray her own essence! And nevertheless, I think, she's not a common Vulcan. Who knows, maybe she has lived with us too long, or more simply she's a very special Vulcan.

Inevitably, a bittersweet thought comes to me: _the very special Vulcan of Trip! _

Anyway, yes… of course, logic or not, it surely wasn't possible for her to deny the reality and the depth of their involvement, after her public breakdown… during those awful, devastating moments.(1)

I feel a sharp pain inside me. I think the anguish of those moments will be forever an indelible wound in my soul.

(*_ And for certain, I can not even remotely understand the agony she must have felt... during that day... in those harrowing instants... with the body of her man... torn, motionless and cold... dying... in her arms! _*)

And the excruciating days following …

I remember in all its clarity her evident inner struggling, the way she tried to hide her tears, her continuous fluctuation — together with all of us — between hope and despair during the period of Trip's dreadfully difficult and slow recovery.

It never will leave my mind the image of her, sitting beside his bed, holding his hand firmly, staring with dark-ringed eyes at his tired and wraithlike face, listening attentively and apprehensively to any small change in his harsh breath, while the hypnotic rhythm of the drip-feed's drops was beating a time which wasn't seeming to move forward.

"Captain."

T'Pol's voice awakes me from my ruminations.

I turn around to look at my First Officer.

"Yes, T'Pol?"

"Captain, I think we should camp here for awhile. All of us are fatigued and I am concerned about Commander Tucker. His peculiar condition needs attentive consideration. He must rest."

"T'POL! I told you I'm absolutely fine! Stubborn woman, stop…"

I interrupt whatever my Chief Engineer is about to say. "Commander Tucker!"

I watch the deadpan face of T'Pol. Deadpan, yes, but I have learned to read her eyes a little, surely not as well as Trip does, but I'm sufficiently skilled by now to understand when she is really worried about her mate.

And she never does anything without a good reason. Maybe she calls Trip "Ashayam" and clearly displays her new status, as Trip does; but never… never… is she less than absolutely professional. Never she has ignored her duty, not even for a small moment.

She's still T'Pol, only she has now completely accepted reality and has no intention to hide what she and Trip are for each other. I smile to myself, again, her sentence resounding in my mind once more.

"_ Acting otherwise would be totally illogical, Captain. _"

Right! Sure! But can logic explain this new sweetness which there is now in her? This softness that – and I'm not the only one who has this impression – has enhanced even her ability to work, exactly as it has happened to Trip, whose wizardry has become, if possible, even more impressive. His usual impetuousness is always there, extant and palpable, but it is mitigated by T'Pol's influence.

Unless he feels oppressed by T'Pol's hyper-protectiveness. Yes! Just so! Her hyper-protectiveness! Though, she is not altogether wrong, considering the sufferings she has gone through... and Trip's fiery temper.

And at this moment in time she's hyper–protective in Trip's opinion, and he feels exasperated.

(*_Ok, Commander Tucker. Better you now use some of those relaxation techniques that your woman tries to teach you, even if I don't know if they will work, considering the order I'll give. _*)

"Very well, Commander T'Pol. Nobody knows Commander Tucker's needs better than you."

I raise my arm aloft, looking forward to seeing what will happen after the order I'm about to give.

Oh yes! The new situation we have because of my two Commanders is strange, and it's not always easy to handle. This is a fact, like the fact that I had to sweat blood with Starfleet. Fortunately the extraordinary and celebrated proficiency of Trip and T'Pol helped me convince the higher levels that we couldn't to lose them. Better to allow a secret couple of _Star-Crossed Lovers _to live on _Enterprise _under Starfleet's protection in contradiction of the rules, rather than lose two such exceptional people.

Yes. The situation is strange and difficult. But undoubtedly it is also fun.

Their famous scuffles acquired a novel and sweeter flavour, now, and the look of angry irritation that shines on the face of my poor friend is… priceless.

I bark my order.

"HALT! We camp here!"

"Thanks, Captain."

I smile cheerfully at T'Pol, nodding at her thanks, my eyes drinking in with amusement the furious and contemporaneously forlorn expression on Trip's face, who's listening some steps away.

He speaks, dismayed, to me. "Jon…" (*_Uh! Jon! This thing is serious! _*) "… you always pay heed to her!"

My face is earnest, while I reply. "Trip, I hold my own butt dear!"

Then I turn around precipitously, keeping from openly laughing at the thunderstruck expression of my friend and at the lifted eyebrow of her woman.

I go toward Malcolm, who has observed and listened to everything, a little far away from us, near the feet of one of the gigantic trees that surround us.

I reach him and we sit together. We lean our backs on the tree and turn our head to looking at the couple.

They are walking away, slowly, together, Trip gesticulating with animation and T'Pol with her usual quiet behaviour.

The light wind that whooshes among the branches of the thick forest that encircles us brings unto us chips of phrases and of words.

"…stubborn…"

"…I'm not…"

"…fine…"

"…T'hai'la…"

"…but, Hon…"

"…you… angry… I care for you?..."

"… damnit!..."

"… want me to suffer again?..."

"… no, no… darlin'!... I don't… You know I…"

"… so, Ashayam, don't… and don't… headstrong …"

I follow them, while they disappear from our view, behind the trunk of an immense tree, her hand softly lying on his arm.

Some tiny and feeble words arrive yet at our ears, in the breeze, while the evening's first shadows begin to grow longer around us. I can't swear, because now I cannot hear well, but it seems to me something as "… love you…", "… and I you…".

Or maybe it's only my imagination. Maybe.

"With all respect, Captain, I'm unsure it is good…" Malcolm's words shake me, and I finish for him. "… that T'Pol is here? With us and with Trip?"

"Yes, Sir."

I smile lightly, replying to my Armour Officer. "Well, Malcolm. As I said and as you were able to hear… I hold my own butt dear!"

He chuckles softly. "Oh, I can understand you, Sir! Honestly, I think you had no other choice."

"Yeah, Lieutenant! You're right."

My smile as my reply to Malcolm's statement is coloured with facetious resignation, the conversation emerging vividly in my mind which occurred in the conference room, when I discussed our away mission with my Officers.

* * *

_"I think it's dangerous for Commander Tucker." _

_"T'Pol, what the hell…"_

_"Quiet please, Commander Tucker. What do you mean, T'Pol?" _

_"Captain, it's not a long time since Commander Tucker has recovered. I believe the approach march through the forest for reaching the mountain might be too heavy for him, especially in consideration of his well-known carelessness with regard to his health." _

_"Hey!" _

_"I said quiet, Trip! And then, indubitably T'Pol is right about your incautiousness. Nevertheless, T'Pol, we have no other way. Trip is absolutely necessary in order to detect and to examine the signal's source, and it's really impossible to reach the mountain whence it's issued by means of shuttle pod. The enormous stormy dark rain clouds which perpetually enshroud the mountain and which provoke those incredible tempests preclude that, so the only way is to land on one of the glades that intersperse the forest that covers the planet, and thence to reach the mountain, walking through the weald, up to the massif's feet. " _

_"The closest glade to the mountain is far from it, three march days, and this march has to be done through a wild forest, Captain." _

_"T'Pol, I'm fine, and then you cannot keep me in cotton wool!" _

_"Exactly, T'Pol. Trip is right. Your… preoccupation is legitimate, of course! But, well!... Ahem… In short… Duty is duty. I don't think I have to remind you." _

_"No, Captain, you have not. I'm sorry. I apologize if my deportment sounded inadequate. Actually, it is only logical. In fact, it would be illogical to deny the fact that I'm preoccupied in regards to Commander Tucker's ability to behave himself. His disregard for his safety during his away missions is well-known." _

_"Oh Damnit!" _

_"The new situation that became established with your permission, Captain, implies I'm authorized to behave in order to safeguard Commander' Tucker's well being, in order – in its turn - to safeguard my own well being. This is a matter of fact. So, given that Commander Tucker and I are… soul-mates, that thanks to your good offices we can openly be so on the ship under your command, that this is his first away mission after… what happened, that my presence is not strictly required on the ship during the away mission, that my personal expertise could be useful on the planet, that it is not necessary that Commander Tucker and I have to be separated in this peculiar circumstance, that it's quite logical that I have the care of Commander Tucker and that I am the most logical person who can prevent Commander Tucker's frequent illogical conduct… in reason of all this, Captain, I advance formal request to be able to take part in the away team."

* * *

_

Just so! This is the new T'Pol we have to confront.

Logical. As always.

Irreproachable. As always.

Outright. As always.

And in love. Openly and plainly, finally, after all the uncertainties and the doubts. After the sufferings.

So much in love that she wants to defend her love with iron and indisputable logic, using the training and the habit of a whole lifespan and of her culture and required by the Vulcan she is; but through this logic, maybe even without it being realized by her, the passion shines … the passion of the new and unique woman she became.

Yes, she's unique, and this uniqueness, this unspeakable mixture of logic and of passion, of rationality and of limpid and unashamed love... all this is for my Chief Engineer.

I envy him tremendously.

* * *

_"T'Pol! You cannot think you can look after me as a nursemaid!" _

_"Surely not, Commander Tucker, because I am not your nursemaid. Actually I think I'm something else for you." _

_"Eh? Oh.. oh… yes! Sure!… But… Hey, T'Pol! I don't think Vulcan decorum…"_

_"Vulcan decorum has nothing to do with all that, Commander. It's only a matter of logic." _

_"Uh? What…" _

_"The fact, Commander, is that it would be absolutely illogical the time is wasted that you used in order to persuade me to become this something else." _

_"Damn, T'Pol! You…" _

_"So, considering your innate proclivity to act impulsively, without thinking of the after-effects your actions could have on the others and without thinking you are not alone…"_

_"I…" _

_"… I believe it is absolutely expedient and logical I come with you, to remind you…"_

_"T'Pol…"_

_"… that you aren't alone ANY MORE, now."

* * *

_

Aha! This is the new T'Pol we have to confront.

And… Yes. I envy tremendously my Chief Engineer.

* * *

_"Commanders! Enough now!"

* * *

_

I total recall the baffled expression on Trip's face when he and T'Pol turned their heads at my call, as I totally recall the amused expression plastered on everyone's visages.

And the look I saw in T'Pol's eyes.

Concern. And… fear, yes. Also that. And… almost some kind of prayer, I think.

But also a sort… I don't know… a sort of strange light, a… a grim glint.

Well! I know she's logical and rational and measured and balanced! And nevertheless… nevertheless… Surak's katra has been inside me. I know how much Vulcans can be protective of their bond-mates. And jealous of them. And… vengeful.

And that light was the same I saw in her eyes when, after Malcolm kept his word to unearth those bastard Terraprimers who had kidnapped Trip1, that guy had the effrontery to say he had been the boss of those who had tortured Trip. That guy who was subsequently swallowed in the void, as a consequence when so strangely and unexpectedly and unaccountably the bulkheads opened… just the moment he was walking, alone, under video-surveillance, toward the shuttle that had to transport him to Earth.

Nobody, ever, was able to find the causes. Court of inquiry didn't achieve any result.

Oh sure! She's logical and rational and measured and balanced and trustworthy! She's a real friend, almost Human in her being. But… she's so… Vulcan, too! I think that only Trip can truly comprehend her! My opportunity got lost during my blind behaviour in the Expanse.

I smile pensively and at the same time bitterly to myself. (*_If at anytime I had any opportunity. She's with Trip… she… has been always with him! _*)

Nonsenses! NONSENSES! My unsaid thoughts are only that!

In this way I should think of Malcolm, too, who didn't appear too zealous in his job in that occasion. And what should I think of Hoshi, who seemed to be so sluggish in her duty? And Phlox? Frankly I can't say he was at that time the perfect doctor he usually is; he sounded nearly… lazy, and – on the other hand – not even I… _not even I_… was particularly painstaking.

Oh enough! Nonsenses! NONSENSES!

And nevertheless I remember perfectly that scene in the conference room. And… that light in T'Pol's eyes… those restrained titters of everyone at my plainly amused – _**and slightly hurried **_- response.

* * *

_"Commander T'Pol, I think your request…"

* * *

_

Yes! I hold my own butt dear!

* * *

_"… is logical. Permission granted!"

* * *

_

"Anyway, Captain…" Malcolm's words bring back me to the world.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I'm glad that Hoshi remained on the ship."

"Well! Someone had to stay on the ship… Lieutenant!"

"Captain?"

"What the hell do you want to mean?"

"Oh, well! You know. I… she… we… well… after Tr… ahem… Commander Tucker and Commander T'Pol… You know… Well… Oh… Ensign Sato is very … And I… "

"Lieutenant! Should I believe what I think I have to believe?"

"Mh… Captain…"

(*_Yes! I have to believe! _*)

"Oh for Pete's sake! What the hell am I commanding? An exploration ship or a dating agency? I…" Suddenly I realize that there's something else in his statement. "Lieutenant! Why have you said you're glad Hoshi remained on the ship?"

I know he doesn't ever talk nonsense, and I like not at all the sudden somber expression that appears on his face.

"I don't know, Captain. I'm aware this planet is empty and uninhabited. No life sign is detected but these trees. There are no animals, there's nothing else but these trees. The signal comes from automated machinery, as far as we were able to check, according to Bannerdas' information, and we have no reason to not believe them. And yet…"

"And yet?"

"Oh never mind, Captain! I'm always the same paranoid Armour Officer!"

"Malcolm, what are you worried about?"

"Nothing, Captain. Nothing. Only…"

"Only?"

He turns his eyes around, looking frowningly at the huge trees which enclose us. "Well, Sir! This immense forest that conceals the sky's sight, is really oppressive. I feel… like a mass of eyes is observing us from among the branches."

"Lieutenant, the Bannerdas are a very old race, pacific and collaborative, well-respected by everybody and everywhere. They no longer have spaceships, they haven't any more interest in space exploration, but their knowledge is incredibly vast and their wisdom is revered by everyone, even by Klingons, someone says even by Romulans. The fact that they required our intervention in order to discover and to investigate why the hell this signal has sprung suddenly from this planet, which is in their space and where, in their cognizance, no sentient living soul has ever existed, it's certainly a great honour for us."

"I know, Captain."

"We're explorers, we mustn't get agitated by the atmosphere around us."

"Of course, Captain."

"Very well. So, enough, now."

I look at the night's shadows which now are becoming deeper.

"Anyway, Malcolm, I think T'Pol was right. It's late, and it's better we turn our downtime into a veritable camp."

"Yes, Sir."

"Please, proceed."

"Yes, Sir."

I watch Malcolm while he calls people, in order to set up the camp. We can use only sleeping-bags, because the space between the trees is too meagre to allow us to arrange tents.

(*_Well. Honestly I must admit that this weald is really oppressive. _*)

I raise my face to attempt to catch a bit of sky.

Nothing to do.

Only branches.

Thick. Compact. Inextricable.

Ominous.

Threatening.

It seems to me that countless cold eyes are hidden behind them.

Evilly observing us.

* * *

**The Prologue's End. **

**Now, we begin.

* * *

**

(1) _This is a reference to my story "Destiny". _


	2. Chapter 2

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter 1**

**

* * *

**

Rating:

PG-13

**Genres:** angst, adventure, romance, drama… **and mistery**!

**

* * *

**

And now, we begin.

Ah. Thanks,** Linda** for your tireless job. And for your friendship.

* * *

"TRIP!"

The shout awakens me suddenly.

T'Pol's voice.

Frightened.

I shake my head to chase away the sleep's fumes.

Another shout.

Malcolm's voice.

"Alarm! Alar... Aaaahhh!"

I slip out from my sleeping-bag and I leap up, completely wakeful.

Around me, people do the same, but I don't care about them.

I look at the ground, at the place where T'Pol and Trip were sleeping near each other.

They are there no longer, T'Pol's sleeping-bag has disappeared, the one of Trip is empty.

There's a form on the ground, motionless. The camp's lights show the blood which covers it.

"Malcolm!"

I lunge at Malcom's body and squat down upon it.

He breathes, weakly, but breathes. The pulse on his neck is feeble, but perfectly palpable.

"Trip!"

Again. T'Pol's voice. Farther.

Scared. Invoking.

I turn my head toward the shout's direction.

The leafy branches shake, rustling noises coming from them, as a difficult and wheezy running. I seem to see a flicker of blonde hair between them.

An instant, then nothing else.

The branches revert to quiet.

"Tr..."

Once again T'Pol's shout, faint and all of a sudden... interrupted.

Major Dougal looks briefly at me, then he hurls himself ahead toward the trees, his men dashing ahead in unison with him, following the shriek's provenance.

And in the dim beam of the camp's lights... I see, even if I can't believe what I see.

The branches glue together, suddenly and swiftly, forming a... a sort of wall, a barrier, into which Dougal and his men bump and which beats off them, making some of them fall to the ground.

They look stunned at the branches which stopped them, and which now are extricating from each other, taking again their original position and rustling placidly and innocently in the light wind.

I suppress my confusion and my bewilderment, and I leap to my feet, taking control of the situation.

I bark my orders.

"In a circle. Weapons ready. Medical kit. Hurry. Dougal, explore everything with our devices."

After some moments during which nothing happens, I decide to examine closely the... the barrier that stopped Dougal and his MACOs from running in aid of Trip and T'Pol, and I go beyond the circle's limit, gun levelled, while Kramer, as a member of the _Enterprise_ medical team, takes care of Lieutenant Reed.

I reach cautiously the branches' tangle amid which the Commanders disappeared.

Nothing can be seen. I lift my hand and push it guardedly ahead, as if I were to penetrate with my hand the obscurity beyond the branches.

A rustling, intense, and rapidly the branches glue to each other again, and stop my hand.

I push, at first delicately, then with force more and more intense.

The branches barrier recedes slightly, but it stays firm and impenetrable. Much as I push, I can't soak into it.

I withdraw my hand and the branches regain quickly their previous position, looking like... simple branches.

I repeat my gesture at some other spots, and the outcome is always the same.

"Captain". Dougal's call diverts me from my examination and from my thoughts.

"Major?"

"Captain, there's no trace of vital signals, except for two, a Vulcan signal and a Human signal. They are going away from us quickly, in the direction from where we heard Commander T'Pol's last shout. The Vulcan signal precedes the Human signal just a bit. They are practically superimposable."

"No other signal?"

"No Captain." The disconcertment is evident on Dougal's face, as on everyone's.

I talk calmly, trying to inject security.

"The... branches barrier?"

"I don't detect anything, Captain. There's no source of energy. Nothing."

I cannot completely mask my puzzlement. "Nothing?"

"Nothing, Captain. Only the atmosphere and soil's normal components, and these trees, perfectly ordinary in their composition. And - He looks at me, clearly worried. - those two vital signals, which are becoming more and more distant."

"Captain, Lieutenant Reed has regained consciousness."

At Kramer's call, I cease to attempt to put a bit of order in my thoughts.

"Dougal, try to find the extension of the branches barrier, manually, since there's no other way."

"Yes, Captain."

I reach Malcolm.

He is resting on the camp stretcher, his head in bandages, garishly, and with another bandage across his torso.

He has been cleaned of the blood, and looks good, his breath regular and quiet.

I look inquiringly at the crewman who called me. "So, Kramer?"

"Nothing serious, Captain. A deep wound on the head with considerable bleeding, now fully stopped, some light bruises and two incompletely broken ribs, nevertheless without any consequence. No concussion sign, no internal lesions."

"I'm fine, Captain."

I look down at Malcolm, nodding at him, and I sit down, next to him, indicating to Kramer to withdraw away with a hand's gesture.

"So, Malcolm? What happened?"

He frowns, and his eyes look strangely.

"Captain, in spite of any logic I felt bothered. Those... those eyes were still watching me from among the branches, so I decided to keep guard over us. I began to go around, silently, while everyone was sleeping. I was looking at the two Commanders, when..."

He stops speaking, an embarrassed expression on his face, almost as if he is afraid to tell me what he has seen.

"Malcolm?"

"Captain, you have all liberty to not believe me, but, just while I was watching them, T'Pol's sleeping-bag got up from the ground."

Malcolm pauses awhile, scrutinizing my face. "It got up from the ground lifted by... some branches emerging suddenly from the forest."

I try to not show my inner tension. "Go on, Lieutenant."

"The sleeping-bag stopped in mid-air, at a height of about two meters."

I repeat, unkindly. "Go on, Lieutenant."

"T'Pol woke up, obviously, and shouted, calling Trip."

"I heard the shout, it wakened us."

"As Trip, Captain, who immediately slipped out from his sleeping-bag, perfectly awakened, and while I was yet attempting to understand what the hell was happening, he jumped up, with such quick reflexes that I find it hard to believe he passed through what he passed."

I remain silent. Malcolm keeps on, looking evidently relieved that I don't demur minimally.

"He grasped T'Pol's sleeping-bag, trying to draw it down, without managing to do so, and while he was hanging onto it, the sleeping-bag began to move away, toward the trees, dragged by the branches and dragging Trip with it."

I'm still silent.

"T'Pol endeavoured to get free from her sleeping-bag, but other branches spurted out from the dark, imprisoning her tightly, like living creepers.

Malcolm takes a deep breath.

"Go on, Malcolm, go on."

"The sleeping-bag, with Trip still hanging on it, reached the threshold of the trees, and there..."

"There?"

"Captain... The forest's branches detached from each other, and an opening appeared between them, a sort of narrow passage."

I can't help but murmur, pensively. "A living barrier for us, a living corridor for her."

Malcolm looks at me with puzzled eyes.

"A barrier?"

"Don't mind. Keep on."

"The branches, which were carrying the sleeping-bag, sped up abruptly, throwing it into the passage and the sudden acceleration forced Trip to loose his hold, and he fell down to the ground, but he jumped up on his feet with an astounding quickness and rushed frantically behind the sleeping-bag which was imprisoning T'Pol and taking away her, new branches continually rising from the forest and passing the sleeping-bag to each other, while finally I woke up from my catatonic state and threw myself toward them."

Malcolm castes a guilty glance at me.

"Captain, I know I have no justification for my ineptitude, for my sluggishness, but I was unable to believe to my eyes, and then... then I think that only a handful of seconds had passed since I had seen the branches become animated."

"Even less, Malcolm, even less. And then, I think no one would have been able to act differently from you."

"But Commander Tucker..."

"It was T'Pol, Malcolm. With her, nobody can compete with Trip. Not even death, you know it."

Malcolm nods, in acknowledgement, then he keeps on.

"Screeching the alarm, I dashed toward the forest's passage and... a big branch rose suddenly and struck me powerfully, catapulting me backwards, head over heels. Then the dark engulfed me, and I woke up while Kramer was treating me.

"Captain, come and see this!" Both I and Malcolm give a start. Dougal's voice resounds pressing and incredulous.

We exchange a worried look, then I run toward Dougal, without caring what Malcolm would think or do.

Dougal and one of his MACOs are next to an enormous tree.

"Dougal?"

"See this, Captain."

He lift his hand to touch one branch at his right side. Immediately the branches go into the reaction I well know, by now, making the barrier perfectly evident.

Behind me, I hear Malcolm gasp. "Bloody hell! I now understand what you meant, Captain!"

"Lieutenant! What the hell are you doing here? You're wounded."

"I'm fine, Captain. Don't worry."

"Lieutenant..."

"Captain! Please!" Dougal's recall shakes me.

"We will talk later, Lieutenant. Proceed, Dougal."

He nods and moves to his left side, walking slowly toward the heap of leafy branches which we can see there and which debars advance.

A powerful rustle and, swiftly, the branches split. An opening appears, a passage, a sort of short corridor with a vaulted roof made with leafs and branches, large enough to hold all of us.

People crowd around us, inevitably forgetful of keeping the useless circle I ordered them to make, and I don't think that it's time to remind them of discipline.

The green corridor deepens for a not long way into the forest, its dark end oriented toward...

"It heads toward the glade where the shuttlepod is waiting for us."

Malcolm gives voice to my inner thoughts. I nod. "It seems we have to leave. We are not welcome, here."

"Captain!" - Dougal's tone is alarmed. - "With due respect, we can't! The Commanders..."

"Do you have some ideas, Major?"

"Well, Captain, maybe we might use the fasers to open our road..."

"I don't think it's a good idea, Dougal." - Malcolm touches his head carefully, while speaking. - "Not at all."

"Major Dougal." - My tone is harsh. We can't waste time. - "I don't believe in enchanted forests, and you don't either, I suppose. We need information, Major, and we can't find them here."

"The Bannerdas."

"Yes, Lieutenant Reed. They asked us to come here, this planet belongs to them, they have to explain something to us."

"Captain, do you think..."

"It's not important, at this moment, Lieutenant. Now we only must reach quickly our shuttlepod. There's no way, here, to communicate with _Enterprise_, we're completely isolated. So, we have to take advantage of the situation, if possible. It's probable that the... corridor will allow us to reach the shuttlepod very swiftly, judging from the rapidity with which the Commanders are proceeding..."

"Toward the mountain." Malcolm's voice resound strangely. It's like he wants to say something much deeper than his words' simple meaning.

I nod, gravely. "Yes, Malcolm, toward the mountain. We..." - My voice cracks slightly. - "...we must know how we can rescue them."

All men are silent. I raise my hand.

"Everyone inside the passage. Dougal, you and your MACOs ahead. Let's go."

We dive into the opening and begin to walk slowly and warily.

The forest rustles around us.

Suddenly, behind us, the branches rejoin each other, hissing ominously and precluding us from going back.

Before us, the corridor enlarges and lengthens, like it is inviting us to go ahead. And so we do, and as we proceed the swiftness with which the branches work grows faster, like they want us to quicken our steps, and so, little by little we almost run.

(*_Don't think, Archer, don't think about all this. Don't allow yourself to cede to the surreal impression that we are sucked into some kind of spooky and supernatural thing._ *).

But it's very hard to not surrender to this sensation, while we advance very speedily in the middle of a branches bubble which seems to lead us where it wants us to go.

But we mustn't, and so I feign a confidence I don't feel. "Let's proceed. Do not think of anything else."

But the leafy branches bubble exists. And it is taking us away.

The forest rejects us, but it... claimed T'Pol. Only T'Pol.

Not Trip. Trip has been taken by accident. Because where there's T'Pol, there's Trip, and vice versa, but the forest wants T'Pol. And T'Pol... is the only woman of our away team. I don't know if someway it matters she's a Vulcan woman, I don't know. But only she has been taken. And now she's taken toward the mountain. With Trip in her tow, if he will be capable of resisting. And the mountain...

"Captain." Malcolm's voice is a whisper in my ears. We are striding together.

"Captain", he repeats.

"Something wrong, Malcolm? Your wounds hamper you?"

"I'm fine, Captain, I told you. Captain..."

"Yes?"

"Captain... why... why T'Pol?"

I don't respond, trying to ignore his question, which brings into open air the identical questions that are whirling in my mind.

I remain silent, while we continues our fast march in the dark of the leafy branches living bubble, to the light of our torches.

But he doesn't desist.

"Captain, Commander Tucker was incidentally taken. The forest..." He pauses shortly. - "The forest wants T'Pol. And T'Pol..."

I anticipate him. "The forest is a forest, Malcolm. There must be some explanation."

He stays silent for some instants. Then he speaks again.

"Captain, at this rate we will reach the shuttlepod very soon. There are no longer the obstacles we found when we came here. It almost seems that the forest wants to facilitate our... expulsion."

"Malcolm, we will find the explanations we need. On _Enterprise_."

Some moments of silence. Then...

"Captain."

"Malcolm?"

"Probably Commander T'Pol will be taken to the mountain very soon."

"Yes."

"With Commander Tucker with her, if he will manage to last out."

"Yes."

"Captain, what the hell it will happen when..."

I almost burst out. "I don't know, Malcolm, I don't know."

Malcolm throws a sidelong glance at me. Then he returns to watch ahead.

"We must go to _Enterprise_, Captain. As soon as possible. We need... to know."

I don't want to let him become aware of his unconscious lack of respect. "Exactly, Malcolm. And, at this rate, we will able to do it very soon."

"But... not before the Commanders reach the mountain."

I hesitate shortly. "No, Lieutenant."

He shouts. "RUN!"

I don't dare to give any reprimand to him, and I shout in my turn. "RUN!"

People speed further their march.

The forest encircles us, like a threatening shroud.

I turn my head, while we are practically running.

And I have myself to convince that it's only an illusion of my harassed mind what I believe to dimly see behind us, at the bottom of the forest corridor. A nebulous shade, among the branches and the leafs. Like an enormous pair of eyes - demonic, inhuman - which is watching us.

Sardonically scoffing at us.

* * *

Silently, with mechanical precision, the invisible automatic devices do their job

Silently, slowly, the sleeping-bag goes down, delicately, on that which seems a sort of indefinite floor, descending from the strange and air-like kind of glimmering fluid where it's floating lightly.

The devices work, precisely and minutely, without errors.

They don't know anything. They have no consciousness, they only work.

They do what they have to do.

_**

* * *

**_

Something stirs, in the dark.

_**Somewhere.**_

* * *

The unconscious woman, imprisoned into the sleeping-bag, slips out from it, gently, and little by little she ascends, until she stops in mid-air and begins to roll, levitating placidly, showing herself from every angle of view.

She's beautiful.

Her delicate eyelashes vibrate tenuously in her unconsciousness.

Her pointed ears show up attractively, faintly enlightened by the diffused illumination which seems to not have source.

Her mouth reddens in the dim light of the environment, like a vermilion flower, a silent invitation, in the vulnerability of her present state.

She's beautiful.

Her bosom, revealed from the numerous rips of her blouse, rises flourishing at her every breath.

She's beautiful.

But the devices can't notice it. They are only machines, without intelligence.

Without desires.

They.

_**

* * *

**_

Something shakes, in the frost.

_**Somewhere.**_

* * *

The devices work.

They have to prepare the sleeping woman.

The sleeping-bag disappears, slowly. Slowly they fade away, the woman's clothes.

And her body, still turning slowly around each of its axes, shows itself in all its splendour.

It's gorgeous her naked body, eons have passed since something nearly as beautiful as her has been seen.

No living creature, no man, is able to not feel something inside, some kind of languorous urge, of exacting desire, in front of the wondrous spectacle of her enchanting and defenceless nudity.

But the devices can't feel anything.

They simply examine her, and treat her, to heal her wounds and her grazes, to make perfect her visage and her body.

They are machines.

They can't feel.

They.

_**

* * *

**_

Something...

_**...down there...**_

_**...somewhere...**_

_**...begins to feel.**_

* * *

Cleanliness. Care. Fragrance. Perfume.

The ancient and arcane rite is made.

Almost.

The soft and well-shaped body of the unknowing woman is ready, now.

It smell good, sensual.

It looks smooth and tempting.

Her face is the image of beauty and her hair are silken and lustrous.

Her tiny hands seem to promise magical and forbidden caresses.

Her lips require passionate kisses.

Her body is the road to perdition, its sight might be capable of reawakening the consciousness even in the body and in the mind of a man gone since endless ages.

But the devices are only machines. Nothing else.

They can't have consciousness.

They.

_**

* * *

**_

Something... some sort of unknown consciousness... awakens.

_**Imperceptibly. **_

_**In the depths.**_

_**Somewhere.**_

_**It's a clot, brutal, primitive.**_

_**And it awakens.**_

_**And senses.**_

* * *

Everything is done, all is ready.

The woman goes down slowly on something - invisible, intangible - which seems to sustain her.

She is recumbent, half-lying down in this sort of impalpable alcove; her head reclined on her right shoulder; her firm breasts showing all their beauty in their nudity, rising at each of her breaths; her eyes closed; breathing quietly; her arms lying to either side of her; her bare, levigated legs resting slightly parted on the nil beneath her.

Under her flat lap, which palpitates gently with her breath's pace, at the junction of her shapely thighs, the dark and come-hither flower of her femininity displays all its unfathomable loveliness.

She lies so.

Unconscious, nude.

Helpless.

Totally exposed.

As an unaware offer.

_**

* * *

**_

Something... that lump of consciousness, which doesn't even know yet that it's conscious, grows up.

_**It branches out, it expands, slowly at first, then more and more swiftly, until it explodes.**_

_**Until it replenishes all things.**_

_**It stays so, for awhile, as a pulsating magma.**_

_**Unlimited.**_

_**Unknowable.**_

_**Unsearchable.**_

_**Primordial.**_

_**Without form and substance.**_

_**Then...**_

_**Unknown and incognizable sensory faculties begin to sense. To explore.**_

_**They taste, finger, fathom, looking for something, for the recall which claimed and demanded imperiously.**_

_**They try to localize it, to understand what it is. **_

_**And they perceive it.**_

_**And so, that... something... that magma... that... thing... starts to advance toward it.**_

_**An inhuman, inexpressible, incredibly age-old existence, an existence not even yet aware that it's existing yet again, is throbbing - once more - and it searches for knowing what it is, what it has to do.**_

_**And it encircles and wraps the beautiful woman who is unwittingly waiting for her fate.**_

**

* * *

**

End of Chapter one

_So... what do you think will happen now?_

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

* * *

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genres:** angst, adventure, romance, drama

**

* * *

**

_Things seem to become more and more complicated, I think._

_Thanks again, **Linda**, who once more wanted to support me with your precious help._

* * *

* * *

"Shuttlepod One, _Enterprise_ here."

Hoshi's voice resounded strong in the compartment. It's quiet, but an unequivocal tone of restrained surprise transpired through it.

"Shuttlepod One here, Ensign. We will be there before long."

"We weren't expecting you so soon, Captain. Your return was scheduled eight days after your departure, instead we saw the Shuttlepod soar above the weald one day and one night since you left."

Worry was clear in Hoshi's words, but this is not the moment to talk about what happened.

"Any explanation has to be put off, Hoshi. Please, give Phlox warning to be ready for an injured man."

"Ah, I see, Captain" - A mixture of ill-concealed amusement and of evident concern shines now plainly through Hoshi's words. - "So, Commander T'Pol wasn't wrong, ultimately. Commander Tucker did not betray himself once more."

I reply harshly, inevitably. "No, Ensign. Commander Tucker and Commander T'Pol...".

Then I stop abruptly. I try to soften my tone. For me and... for Hoshi. I learned a lot from the past and from my past mistakes.

"It isn't Trip, Hoshi." - I go on sweetly. - "It's... Malcolm."

"Malcolm? Namely... Lieu... Lieutenant Reed? "

"Don't worry, Hoshi. He's fine. I just want the Doctor to examine him, one never knows. But I have no reason not to trust Kramer's opinion, and he told me Lieutenant Reed is well." - Yes, I learned a lot and I don't want to be far from my friends, anymore.

"Sure, Captain. Excuse me. Docking estimated in sixty seconds. All ready, Captain. Doctor Phlox..."

"I'm ready, too, Captain. Ensign Sato arranged for me to be listening to the transmission. Please, order Kramer to send me all information about Lieutenant Reed's present status."

"Immediately, Doctor. Archer out."

* * *

Damn woman!

_Especially in consideration of my well-known carelessness with regard to my health, uh?_

(*_Can... can a man try to repress his terror to lose... to lose his reason for living, using this kind of stupid humour?_ *)

Damn, stubborn woman!

_My disregard for my safety during my away missions is well-know, right?_

(*_Can a man try to think like this, with the attempt to control the dire fear he feels inside?_ *)

Damn, stubborn, STUBBORN woman!

_You are the most logical person to prevent my frequent illogical conduct, uh?_

(*_Yes! A man can do this, if he doesn't want to become mad._ *)

Stubborn, STUBBORN... stubborn woman!

"..._So, considering your innate proclivity to act impulsively, without thinking of the after-effects your actions could have on the others and without thinking you are not alone... "_

(*_Alone!_ *)

STUBBORN WOMAN!!!

"... _I believe it is absolutely expedient and logical that I come with you, to remind you..."_

(*_Expedient and logical, uh?_ *)

"... _that you aren't alone ANY MORE, now."_

(*_Alone!_ *)

No!

(*_Alone!_ *)

NO!

(***_Alone!_** *)

NO NO NO!

Stubborn, STUBBORN... stubborn woman!

Stubborn my love!

Don't think, Trip.

_One step._

Don't think!

_Another step._

It's a dream.

_One step again._

A nightmare.

_One step, another._

And, as in all nightmares, I will wake up. And my T'Pol will be near me.

_One step, another, another yet. _

It's not true that she disappeared into the mountain, it's not true.

_Walk! One step after another. Walk!_

It's not true that she has been gulped inside this dark massif obscuring the sky.

_Walk! Don't think. Walk!_

Where... where is the Bond? Why don't I feel you?

_Walk! Don't think. Don't care about your lack of breath in this dead air around you. Walk._

T'pol... Hon... my love... I'm here. I arrive. I'm here! I'M HERE!

_Breathe! Don't care about anything. Just breathe. Nothing else. And walk!_

I'm reaching the mountain's cliffs, my love.

_Ignore your wounds, Trip._

I wasn't able to follow you when so suddenly you were carried away...

_Walk, walk, walk!_

... the moment we came out into this bog around the mountain...

_Walk! Run!_

... but I'm here, I don't abandon you. I...I WON'T EVER DO IT! I CANNOT. **I'd rather die!**

(***_And I'm dead without you!_** *)

_Ignore the fatigue. Walk. Run, Run!_

Here I am, my love.

_The traitorous and trappy soil doesn't count. Go Ahead, do not halt. Reach the mountain's edgings. Breathe. And walk. RUN RUN RUN! _**_RUN!_**

Here I am, my love. I'm about to touch the mountain's hips.

_Run! Make your heart explode!_

Here I am, my love. My hands are on the mountain's rocks. Now I'll climb up, the mountain's mass won't stop me. Be sure, my love, be sure.

_Go up. Yes. So. There must be a passage, an opening. There must be! Do not slip. Go up. There must be a way! THERE MUST BE!_

(***_There must be!_** *)

* * *

"Captain."

"Ensign."

"All is ready, Captain. Doctor Phlox is..."

"Hoshi..." - I don't want her to be worried and to try to hide her feelings for Malcolm. Stop with stupid rules. - "Hoshi, be tranquil, Malcolm is fine."

She enlarges her eyes at my words, then breathes deeply and turns. And runs toward Malcolm, who is under the Doctor's examination.

I hear her words. "Mal..."

"Don't worry, Hoshi, I'm fine."

"Yes, Ensign, I can assure you. Lieutenant Reed dosn't even need to go to sickbay."'

She levels her look at the Doctor's face, after he uttered this reassuring statement, and she moves her hand to sweetly caress Malcolm's cheek. And Lieutenant Reed doesn't withdraw himself.

Then...

She shakes and draws back her hand from Malcolm's face.

She stares intensely at me... and at the group which exited the Shuttlepod. Like the Doctor does. Like everyone does.

"Captain..." - Her voice is uncertain. Feeble. She gives voice to the questions of everyone. - "... Captain... where... where are Commander Tucker and Commander T'Pol?"

I clench my jaw and my eyes.

I breathe harshly.

"Hoshi, Travis, Doctor, Mister Dougal, Mister Reed. To the ready room. Immediately. We have to discuss and to act, rapidly. And to talk to the Bannerdas."

* * *

Understanding.

_What is this? This effluvium?_

Being.

_This softness? This... oomph?_

Being... alive.

_Far... far reminiscences? Reminiscences, yes. Nebulous. Bygone. _

Eating.

_Reminiscences of... a body? Yes. A body. A... a soul? A soul. Sure. Of... yes. Of female. _

Hunger.

_Female!_

Need!

**_Female! _**

Life!

_Mine!_

Taking!

_MINE!_

Possessing!

**_MINE!_**

Devouring!

_Body and soul!_

**LIFE! LIFE! LIFE!**

* * *

"Captain Archer, I perceive your words and your tone almost as insinuative. Even offensive, I might say."

"Excellency, I beg your pardon, I didn't want to sound disrespectful, but honestly I think you could give us some information to help rescue our comrades. The planet is yours, you know it better than anyone else, you have to know something useful. And then..." - I can't help but being bitter. - "... you asked us to explore the signal's source. Somehow... you have some responsibility for what happened. You must help us."

"Captain, I can understand you, perfectly. But, believe me, we don't know any more about the planet and the forest than what you know, we gave you all the information we have. We were absolutely surprised by the signal, and even more because it didn't seem to have any logical sequence or to make any kind of sense, and never did we suspected that there were some automatic mechanisms in the mountain. Our surveys in the past only detected the presence of some caves, wholly empty and completely uninhabited, not even by plants. These are the reasons for which we wanted to know what was happening, and for this we asked your help, well aware of the adventurous spirit which enlivens your species and of your undeniable resources."

"But, Excellency, how is it possible that none of you is able to offer any explanation about the weald's unnatural deportment?"

"Unnatural, Captain? Frankly I don't think this is the right term."

I frown, exasperated. "No, Excellency? So, what do you think could be the _right term?"_

"Well, Captain... You must understand. Your description of events sounds somewhat... strange, doesn't it?"

"Strange?"

"Captain, your race is very smart and very bold, that's for sure. But... well... maybe it's also a little bit too emotional, don't you believe? I know... we know that... there were some episodes of... mass hallucinations in your history. There's a pile of documentation about that. Your race is highly impressionable due to the atmosphere and from the environment, this is a fact, and perhaps..."

"Perhaps what, Excellency?"- I feel the anger spike inside me. If Trip were here, he would have already told _His_ _Excellency_ what he deserves to hear. - "I think it's you the one who is insinuating, now. You..."

Then I stop, abruptly. Of course, Trip would have already displayed his temper, but his words would have been indisputable. And, right after, T'Pol would have raised her eyebrow to her mate, rebuking him sternly yet amorously, and she would have quietly and irrefutably explained Trip's reasons, with her... with her passionate logic, supporting her Mate as she always does, how both do for each other, always - bickering or not. How... how much I miss them! How much I want them to come back! I... cannot make mistakes. I cannot let them down. I must act wisely if I want to have the Bannerdas' aid and some possibility to rescue our friends.

I breathe deeply and regularly, as if I were using Vulcan training, remembering Surak's Katra inside me and what Trip revealed to me of his woman's teachings in the matter of Vulcan mind-control techniques.

I talk, soundly and gravely, amid the silence of everyone.

"Excellency, your race is age-old and wise. You asked me and my crewmen to help you in order to detect the signal and its source, and what it means. You asked permission from Starfleet command for that. I am persuaded that never would you have acted so if you weren't perfectly convinced that I and my comrades deserved your trust."

The Excellency's stern figure stares at me, silently, for a while, from the screen.

Then he speaks.

"Captain, you're right. Excuse me. I was illogical and offensive. We have to find some information which can aid you. Maybe it could be of help to try to make some thorough researches in our database about the planet, perhaps also in our history files and books."

"Excellency, thank you. But we have no time. We have to act swiftly."

"So be it, Captain. We..."

"Captain!"

Hoshi's alarmed voice draws my attention suddenly and strongly.

"Ensign?"

"Captain..."

* * *

_All is done._

_Nothing else is needed._

_Now, the sacrifice will be made._

_Inescapably._

_Nothing else is needed._

_Nothing else._

_Not even the call._

_The automatic devices start their last job._

* * *

"... the signal has gone."

* * *

A pair of marvellous dark-green eyes suddenly spring wide open.

_What?_

_Fear..._

_Pain... _

_Fear..._

_Fear! FEAR!_

_FEAR!_

A wonderful naked body trembles with terror and repulsion.

_PAIN!_

Two hands - tiny, quivering - stretch out ahead, as if making some kind of shield from...

**_TERROR!_**

Invisible... impalpable... and real, appallingly real...

**_NO! _**

It presses to invade body and brain, to suck the soul... violating, in a way that no word can describe.

**_NO NO NO!_**

A limp Katra shudders under a grisly, repellent, icy touch.

**_NOOO!_**

An adorable, rosy mouth opens to cry out.

To seek help.

From the only one who can hear.

Who can feel.

Who can help.

By his love.

"**TRIP!" **

* * *

"Gone?"

"Yes, Captain, it disappeared. And... nothing can be detected from the planet, not even the normal background noises any astral body emits."

* * *

T'Pol.

**T'Pol!**

**T'POL !**

I feel you!

**I feel you!**

T'POL!

T'POL!!!

WHAT?

**T'POL !!!**

"**T'POOOL !"**

* * *

"Impossible! Mister Reed..."

"It's true, Captain. Ensign Sato is right. We can pick up only the spectrum's visible radiations."

* * *

**Do not dare!**

Do not dare, **_do not dare!_**

Go away!

Leave her alone! GO AWAY. **GO AWAY!**

DO NOT DARE!

I will destroy you! I will crush you! I will break you in small pieces! I will grind you!

Do not dare!

"**DO NOT DARE!"**

* * *

"Captain Archer, I was just informed that we, too, are unable to detect anything from the planet, except images, and the signal isn't there anymore. Your officers are right."

* * *

_Time arrives._

_Now it will be done._

_And no creature and no thing must see, sense, suspect, understand._

_All has to plummet into the nil._

_The automatic devices finish their last job._

* * *

"Captain!"

"What else now, Hoshi?"

"Any image disappeared."

* * *

"**Let me come in! Let me come in, sickening thing! LET ME COME IN!" **

* * *

I run toward Hoshi and look at her console's monitor, forgetful of _His Excellency_ and of any other thing. The monitor is blank. I try to obtain an image from the planet, to detect any spatial or sub-spatial signal from it.

In vain.

It's like the planet has gone away, as if it doesn't exist anymore.

* * *

"**DO NOT THOUCH HER!"**

* * *

"Excellency, what does this mean?"

"I don't know, Captain. I don't know."

* * *

I will enter, I will find the way and I will take you! I will grapple you! And I will disembowel you, I will tear you to infinitesimal shreds! I will shatter you! I will mince you! I will rend you!

"**I WILL EAT YOUR HEART!"**

* * *

I leave the console and go slowly to my command armchair.

My command armchair, the one which Trip built.

I touch it respectfully and sit down in it carefully, turning my head and looking at the empty console where T'Pol were used to work.

I feel the grievous silence of everyone, the unsaid questions everyone is mulling over.

The concern. The dismay.

The powerlessness.

Malcolm's rage.

Hoshi's despair.

The Doctor's disbelief.

Travis's incredulity.

Dougal's repressed need to fight, to destroy.

I seize my head in my hands.

What can I do? What? What can we do?

Where are you, our friends? What happened to you?

What is happening to you?

* * *

"**TRIP!!!!"**

"**DO NOT THOUCH HER!!!!"**

* * *

_What is happening to you?_

* * *

"**TRIIIIIP!!!!"**

* * *

**_What?_**

* * *

"**DO... NOT... THOUCH... ****HER!!!!"**

* * *

**_WHAT?_**

* * *

"**TRIIIIIIIIIIP!!!!"**

"**T'POOOOOOOOOOL !!!!"**

* * *

**End of Chapter Two**

* * *

_Yes. Things seem really to become more and more complicated, don't you think, my friends?_

_And now, what the hell will happen?_

_If you want, we will see it in the next chapter._

**_TBC_**


	4. Chapter 4

**In the Hall of the Mountain King - Chapter 3**

**By Asso**

**

* * *

**

Rating:

PG-13

**Genres:** angst, adventure, romance, drama

_Things become complicated, ever more, I continue to think._

_And once again thank you very much, __**Linda**__, who once more wanted to support me with your precious help._

* * *

In the grip. No escape. A few moments, and fate will be done.

The beautiful woman has not even the strength to breathe, now.

Fear, pain, shame.

Death.

A last thought, desperate. Invoking._ - (*Trip...*)_

And...

A strange sort of perception, with some kind of... _a hint_... of curiosity flashes through what is about to erase, forever and in such a hair-raising way, the woman's life and all its dreams, all that it has been and might yet be.

It's a sort of thought, an idea.

A question.

_'What's... Trip?'_

And then, another perception, external this time. It's a noise... distant.

And again a thought_. _Coherent.

_'What's this... this noise? Yes. Noise.'_

The desperate invocation, from the woman's desperate soul, comes out one last time. Feeble, broken, dead._ - (*Trip...*)_

And a glimmer of cognizance, coming from such an antique yore that no trace of it can be found by now, shines again. Suddenly.

_'What's Trip? Who... who, yes... who is... he? He. Yes.'_

The noise, once more. It's... a voice. A voice, yes. A scream. It's a name yelled out.

_'A name, yes.'_

**"T'POL !"**

Far, despairing, powerful, strong. And full of fear. Of fear for...

_'For T'Pol, yes. For T'Pol.'_

It's a roar, mighty, minacious, puissant. Desperately invoking, it too. And indomitable.

_'Yes... indomitable.' _

**"T'POL !"**

And the unnameable stops.

Hunger and longing halt, and that's unprecedented. Never did it happened before.

But they, hunger and longing, have to await, because an incomprehensible intelligence, so ancient that it can't even remember itself, starts again to be. To work. To think. To wonder.

To plan.

It looks - if it's possible to call its action so - at the naked, wonderful woman, who shudders in a terror which is without name, which she didn't know there might be, against which no Vulcan training can do anything, no logic, no control, because it's too abhorrent the touch she feels on her katra, the horrifying fingering in her brain of another brain, a brain, an essence so foreign and so strange as to be unmentionably fearsome. A thing without soul, living for destroying, for annihilating the anima and the body.

A thing awfully cold.

Abysmally hungry.

_'T'Pol... It's you T'Pol? And... Trip... why does he... - he, yes. -... why is he here?'_

Knowledge and abilities, almost forgotten, return quickly to the light.

_'Because of you?'_

And with knowledge and abilities, rises also a new feeling. A feeling, yes.

_'For you?'_

Hope.

* * *

"Captain..."

Malcolm's voice shakes me.

"There must be something to do. T'Pol... Commander T'Pol... would find a way to act, maybe elaborating some of her mate's intuitions."

* * *

A decision. Sudden. Unexpected.

Incredible.

* * *

I straighten up. We cannot surrender in this way.

"Lieutenant, Ensign Sato. Examine again all that Bannerdas transmitted to us and also all that we recorded about the planet. Everything. I'm sure we can find something important that we didn't notice before and, in any case, we have to plan the way to reach the planet regardless of the fact we cannot detect anything from it, so your researches can be very useful for this purpose."

"Yes, Captain.

"Yes, Sir."

"Mister Dougal."

"Captain?"

"Make ready a plan to go ashore with great force. The planet is concealed, but it still has to be here. Use Lieutenant Reed's abilities and knowledge in order to plan ahead for this."

"Yes, Captain."

"Mister Mayweather."

"Sir?"

"Be ready to follow Major Dougal and Lieutenant Reed's instructions. _Enterprise_ has to do everything it can. And even more."

"Yes, Sir."

"Doctor..."

"You know I'm ready for anything, Captain."

"I know. Excellency..."

"Captain, we are not an action race, but we will do all that we can, and very swiftly. We will scrutinize everything we can find about the planet. Please, tell your officers to feel free to contact our scientists and our technicians in order to have all information that is able to help you to perform your task and to achieve your... our aim. We will see you later. Transmission out."

I stare at the blank screen. I don't know what the hell will happen, now. But...

(*_We will rescue you, T'Pol, and your man. We will find you two. We won't permit your story to end like this. I... __**we**__... swear!_ *)

* * *

A decision, yes, a decision never taken before.

And the moment the defenceless woman almost goes falling into insanity because of the repugnant invasion, she is instead pushed to fall, mercifully, in the deepest unconsciousness.

Then, a sole instant is sufficient. A brief instant. And a whole life - feelings, dreams, fears, hopes, shames, marvels, shadows, lights, pains, joys - becomes known, entirely.

Everything becomes known.

Also - especially, above all - Trip.

Trip.

_'T'Pol's... love? Yes. Love.'_

The unworldly look comes again on the woman, who sleeps now, again. Wondrous and at the mercy of what by now knows everything about her.

And about Trip.

It follows the mild curves of her splendid, nude body.

Her lips, turgid and... and fragrant. Yes, fragrant.

And something rises. A... a sweetness, yes... a far sweetness. Lost in the cloak of time.

A lost memory of... a laugh? A laugh, yes.

Remote.

A... a feel.

Of a female. A female, yes.

Far.

Far.

Who doesn't exist any more.

But she existed, one time, and her bleary memory takes with it the understanding.

_'Trip is your love, T'Pol, isn't he?'_

It's so.

_'Your hope.'_

Yes.

_'Your only hope.'_

HOPE!

And attention focuses on the man.

On T'Pol's love.

* * *

"We are ready, Captain."

"Explain, Mister Reed."

"If we well understood your idea, you think the planet is yet there, somewhere, simply concealed from our sight and from any detection device, for the whole range of the radiations spectrum and for any other emission genre."

"I think so, Mister Reed." - (*_I... hope... so._ *) - "Things do not get lost in the nil, and no energy has been picked up by us or by Bannerdas. Nothing."

"So, Captain, the problem is how to calculate the planet's exact position, and once we have reached it, finding a way to take Enterprise extremely close to the mountain, although we cannot detect anything from the planet and in spite of those terrifying stormy dark rain clouds constantly enshrouding the mountain and those consequent awful tempests which forced us to try to reach the massif by foot, the first time."

"Ahem..."

"And obviously in spite of the fact that we do not have any sign of the clouds, of the storms and of the mountain itself."

"Mister Reed..."

"And also that no transmission is possible below a certain altitude."

"Malcolm..."

"A cakewalk."

"Mister Reed!"

"Ah. And I was forgetting that, once all this is done, we have to debark a lot of men on the mountain, to find a way they can enter it, if - like we suspect and it's logical to suppose by the fact that the signal sprung from it - Commander T'Pol was dragged into it, with Commander Tucker in tow, at least we hope, because - otherwise - ..."

"Malcolm! Are you all ready or not?"

Sometimes I think Trip's deportment is too contagious, and nobody seems immune. Not even Malcolm, it sounds.

But this isn't enough to justify Malcolm's unexpected and sarcastic tone. That's not what I expected from him, and I feel anger grow inside me.

Then I notice his face, tired and somber, and I understand that once more I'm forcing my officers to work to the extreme, burdening them with my disappointment and my fears, careless of their feelings and of their own fears.

In the brief arc of two days, Malcolm had to face things absolutely in opposition to reality to his well settled and schematic mind, which is extremely difficult to bear for him; he has been manhandled, he had to tolerate an immense fatigue even in his condition; he didn't sleep since the time we camped in that glade. Sure, all of us didn't sleep, but, and this is the point, he has to live with the vision of his friends, taken away by the forest, without him being able to do anything to prevent that, and with the thought, typical of him, that he wasn't capable of doing his job.

I breathe deeply, before I speak words I might repent. I have learned from my past experience that a Captain has to be strong, sure, capable, rightful, clever, audacious, and much else besides, if he wants to be a true leader. But, above all, he has to be a friend, authoritative, that's for sure, but capable of being receptive and compassionate. In short a real guide, commanding, but at the same time sympathetic and understanding. This is a true boss. He has to not shut himself up inside his authority, if he doesn't want his authority to turn into a useless and disruptive authoritarianism.

And never again I will permit myself to fall into the same errors I made in the past.

I smile, genially and teasingly.

"So, Lieutenant, you seem to want to demonstrate to me that it's better we rescue Commander Tucker very swiftly, if we want to prevent you from taking his place with regard to his peculiar behavioural mood."

If the situation were not the one we are in, I could find pricelessly amusing Malcolm's expression at my words, but I become speechless at **HIS** following words.

"And I think, Captain, it's better we rescue Commander T'Pol very swiftly, if we want to prevent you from taking her place with regard to her peculiar stilted phrasing."

We watch each other for some time, then I speak, gravely. - "We will rescue them, Mal."

"No doubt, Captain, because you're right."

"You mean?"

Malcolm speaks gravely, in his turn. - "The planet is still there, Captain. I'm sure - the Bannerdas are sure - that your intuition is correct, and I think that, with the help of Bannerda scientists and technicians, we found the way to reach the planet and to go near the mountain. As to how to handle those stormy clouds and those tempests, we have no response, Captain, but... well... is Travis the best helmsman of Starfleet or he is not? In addition I think some photon torpedoes can be useful to partially dissolve the clouds, only we have to calculate the exact moment. And as to the communications' absence... Captain... women and men of the different sections of our ship are capable of doing their job automatically and autonomously, you know it. There's no strict need to communicate between us by means of OC, I can reasonably forecast, considering, besides, that all of us will be on the bridge and that in Engineering there's Hess in command, the best pupil of Trip, in his own words. Anyway, emergency communication with Engineering could be assured by means of a chain of men, ready to transmit your orders to each other. Difficult, but possible: the training of my men provided for this sort of thing."

Malcolm stares intensely at me.

"And major Dougal, Captain, developed a plan in order to debark his men and to allow them to enter the mountain, with _Enterprise_'s help, if necessary. It is maybe a slightly unusual plan and... bizarre, but we think it can work. A perfect mix of Human war arts and Bannerda technological knowledge. They didn't deny their aid for this, and their military chief, who worked with Dougal, thinks the world of Dougal's ability and skilfulness."

I sit down in my command armchair, my look not leaving Malcolm's.

For the first time since we swooped down into this absurdity I feel hope. The Bannerdas think I'm right and Malcolm is telling me that he, Hoshi and the Bannerdas contrived a way to go to the planet and that Dougal knows how to act.

I place my arms on the armrests, leaning my back against the backrest.

Our eyes remain meaningfully locked with each other, while I talk. - "Explain."

* * *

Torn, wounded and bloodied.

Wheezing.

Weary, exhausted.

And untamed.

He searches, he climbs up, he slips, he tumbles.

And he stands up, and he tumbles again, and he stands up, once more.

And he searches again, without rest, without respite.

He thrashes and smites the rocks with his fists.

He yells.

"T'POL! T'POOL!"

Without breath, he still screams.

"I'm here, I'm here! Why don't I feel you again?"

In despair.

"What happened to you? WHAT?"

But still untamed and indefectible, with a will and a hope which don't flex.

With a strength which doesn't cede.

"I will reach you, and I will take you out of there!** Do not doubt! AND WOE TO whoever or whatever DARES TO TOUCH YOU!**"

He doesn't surrender, is frantic in his efforts.

He knows he has no string to his bow, and he doesn't surrender.

'_He doesn't surrender_.'

Now the thoughts begin to come one after the other, easy.

'_He will die, but he won't surrender._'

Why? How come?

From where comes this strength, this crazy persistency?

'_From love?'_

Observing, thinking, wondering, pondering...

Being again, almost, what has been long ago, immemorially long ago.

And reasoning...

Again.

Planning...

Pondering, pondering, pondering...

'_How puissant is this strength?'_

The inhuman sense goes again, pensively, to the sleeping woman, unaware of what she had starting.

'_What level can it reach? __'_

* * *

A cakewalk, sure. Malcolm was right.

We are at stake now, finally. We are doing our cakewalk.

I smile sardonically to myself. And in what other way could what we are doing be called?

A cakewalk. Reaching the planet simply using and trusting the calculations Malcolm and Travis made, taking their stand on what we recorded about the planet's orbit and on the regional space cartography Bannerdas gave us. Without being able to do any useful triangulation, to establish any visual coordinate, or whatever else which could guide us.

A cakewalk. Gliding with the enormous mass of _Enterprise_ through an atmosphere we can't detect, toward a destination we can't see, following the second after second virtual environmental reconstruction our computer will do, elaborating Bannerdas' information.

A cakewalk, Travis, isn't it? Handling those storms? Without seeing or perceiving them? But... Travis... - (*_How said Malcolm?_ *) - ...Are you the best helmsman of Starfleet or you are not?

A cakewalk. T'Pol would tell us we are acting as the usual crazy and illogical species we are. Arching her eyebrow, and... staying at our side, together with us, between us, madder and more illogical than us, provoking her mate's teasing and tender hilarity, and...

"Captain."

"Hoshi?"

"His Excellency asks for you. Privately."

Within a very short time we will begin our approach path, hoping we will arrive on time, for... for whatever could happen, for whatever is happening. What the hell does _His Excellency_ want, just now?

"On my quarters screen, Hoshi."

"Yes, Captain."

I reach my quarters quickly and the stern figure of His Excellency appears on my screen. Well. Maybe it's because of these odd circumstances, but...

I observe His Excellency's features. And I notice, as if it were the first time ...

He looks Human, sure. But he has a hint of ridges on his forehead, like Klingons have. And his eyebrows are arched, like those of Vulcans. And his skin turns toward an azurine gradation, like Andorian skin, even if some green tones, like on the Orion skin, can be noticed on his face. And his mouth is expressive, like the Denobulan mouth. And...

Hey! But what are they, these thoughts? His Excellency is a Bannerda, yes. Nothing else. A member of a very old race, well known everywhere.

(*_Well known? How much... well known? And how old? It's possible... it's possible that nobody noticed how its traits seem to be a... a mixture, yes... a mixture of every humanoid race we know?_ *)

I shake myself. I prefer not to wonder what all this means. For now.

"Excellency..." - I can't restrain myself. Who knows why the hell I feel the need of uttering these words? - "I suppose you desire to wish good luck to the crazy and illogical species we are, right?"

He is caught out. His face shows it clearly. Then he recovers swiftly.

"Our military chief told me this, Captain."

"What?"

"That your race is mad and illogical. And bold. Deign of admiration."

"Ah..."

"She..."

"She?"

"She, yes. Something wrong?"

"Not... not at all, Excellency."

"She told me your Major Dougal is indeed proficient and skilful."

"I see."

"And that if your species' men are like him, she can understand why your Commander T'Pol wanted to join Starfleet. Particularly..." - There's a strange smile, now on His Excellency's face. And... how much it reminds me Phlox's smiles! - " ... but it is only hearsay, definitely... particularly in regard to a certain Chief Engineer."

My face becomes somber, and His Excellency notices it.

"Captain." - He speaks gravely. - "You will find them."

"I hope, Excellency."

"But, maybe, we can help you in some other way."

I clench my eyes. - "Meaning?"

"Captain, please, allow your translator officer to come here. Her well know skillfulness is needed. Here."

I can't help but lift my eyebrow, à la T'Pol. "Excellency?"

"Yes. And also your security officer's abilities. He, too, is needed here."

"E... Excellency?"

"We find something."

"Excellency, we're about to start our..."

"Captain, our plan doesn't need Ensign Sato, and not even Lieutenant Reed. You, yourself, Mister Mayweather and Mister Dougal with his MACOs are all that you need, beside your perfectly practiced crew and Engineer Hess, that's for sure. But I'm persuaded Ensign Sato and Lieutenant Reed would be really more useful if they came here, on our world."

"Excellency, maybe it could be true, even if I'm unable to understand how Ensign Sato and Lieutenant Reed can be more useful there rather than here, but, in any case, it's impossible that they can go there without being transported by means of _Enterprise_."

"Captain, allow me to say you're wrong. We have an energy transporting system, similar to yours, but more evolved. It's the system we use to travel between the worlds which compose our circumscribed dominion, without us having the necessity of spaceships. It can work over not too long a distance, but your ship is in the active range. Obviously the distance between our world and your spaceship is very great, still our technicians think it's possible. An enormous amount of energy will be needed, but you can deliver it for some brief instants, which is what is necessary. The problem is that the system needs a departure station and an arrival station, for working, it's unidirectional, otherwise we could have used it to go to the planet when the signal started, even though I'm sure we wouldn't have been more capable than you about the exploration task. Nevertheless we can work as an arrival station and you as a departure station. Your Engineer Hess, for what I was able to hear about her, is capable of making the needed modifications to your own system in a few minutes, following our instructions, in very less than the time you have to wait to reach the planet. There will be no consequence or interference to your schedule."

"Excellency, what have you found?"

"A book, Captain."

* * *

This is something which never happened in the past, during the many times it needed to violate and devour so many splendid bodies... so many virginal souls. For being again, for living, for gaining some time yet, as the shadow of what has been at one time.

'_Nobody has been able to follow those souls. No man. Why now is he here? Can he be so strong? So strong that...' - _The unfathomable look turns again on the man. - '_...that..._'

The look switches between the furious and despairing man and the unconscious woman, cause of his lucid delirium, of his frenzied efforts.

'_You two can feel each other. What does this mean? Is this a sign? Could this mean that..._' - The look focuses powerfully on the man. - _'...that your force is so great? That __**she**__ can make you so strong? So strong that..._' - And again the expectant thought. - _'...that..._'

Uncertainty.

That never has been felt, before.

Uncertainty.

Is it possible that this man - this Trip - can be...?

'_Is it possible?_'

And if not true? If a mistake? An... an illusion, yes.

'_This could be the end, the real end._'

But... and if it were true?

The look returns to the woman, as if searching for a response.

And it finds it.

* * *

"Are you two ready?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Yes, Sir."

"I don't know why the hell His Excellency didn't want to reveal to me anything of this... this book, but he seemed to be absolutely sure of its importance. And of the necessity of the help of the two of you. And just now, in addition. Anyway he told me there's a way we can have useful information that you two can find, even if we are on the planet; it is something related to the same tele-transport system used by the Bannerdas."

"We have to trust them, Captain. Whatever can be useful must be pursued."

"Yeah, you're right, Hoshi." - "I smile, sympathetically. - "I hope you can find this experience more agreeable than it was in the past."

A swift look at Malcolm, who is standing at her side, very near her.

"I think I will be able to bear it, _now_, Captain."

I blink. "Very well."

I go toward the OC, to order Hess to do what she has to do.

I look one last time at... the couple. And the same words I said, one time, to our missing friends go spontaneously to my mouth.

"I expect you to keep him in line, Hoshi."

"I'll do my best, Captain."

I nod. I'm not sure if I was capable of concealing completely my face's surprised expression, hearing Hoshi pronounce the same, precise sentence T'Pol said, at that time.

"Hess."

"Captain?"

"Now."

"Yes, Sir."

All becomes dark. A sort of deep thunderclap. Brief.

Then everything returns to normal.

And Malcolm and Hoshi are no longer on the dais.

* * *

'_Oh yes. Your beauty can do this.'_

The woman is marvellous. Her body is enchanting and tempting.

'_Your beauty, your love, can really give your man such an incredible force.'_

Beauty... what a... tempting body...

'_Your... beauty... can...'_

The perfume, the fragrance.

'..._can...'_

The view of her smooth skin. The perception of her firm flesh.

'..._can...'_

The heartbreaking recall of her turgid lips.

The mild curves of her breasts. Of her hips. Of her thighs.

The irresistible attraction of her arms. Of her embrace.

Her svelte legs.

The siren call of her deepest flower.

The charming claim of her limpid soul.

Of... her... BEING!

'..._can...'_

The memories... the age-old memories, which the new status, the renewed awareness take on, give a refreshed desire, an unconquerable vigour.

An unstoppable wish.

And all lucidity gets erased. All becomes bedimmed. All is lost. The primordial bunch of infernal needs regains its potency, it explodes once more.

Craving!

Cupidity!

Covetousness!

Lustfulness!

Hankering!

Greediness!

Concupiscence!

Hunger!

**Hunger!**

It's impossible to resist.

**HUNGER!**

Longing!

Necessity. NECESSITY**! NECESSITY!**

TAKING!

POSSESSING!

POSSESSING!

HAVING!

**HAVING HER!**

A flash, and the woman is enwrapped again.

She will be taken by rape which goes way beyond physical violence. It will be a possession of the soul. Of everything that is her.

Total. Unconditioned. Absolute.

And nothing of her will be left, evermore.

* * *

Okay. Here we are.

I sit down in my command chair.

(*_All is in your hands, Mister Mayweather._ *)

* * *

"Excellency."

"Welcome here, Lieutenant, and also to you, Ensign."

"Thanks, Excellency. Please, do not get annoyed, but we have to act apace."

"Sure, Mister Reed. Please, follow me."

* * *

For the second time the woman regains her consciousness, under the awful attack. Once again her sparkling, dark eyes snap open in terror. Sparkling, yes... with tears of horror and despair.

And from her soul bursts out an ear-piercing yell.

It's a shriek of gruesomeness and of unspeakable affright, a silent and still earsplitting cry for help.

_**NOOOOO!TRIP! TRIIIP!**_

And suddenly...

A clatter, an uproar, a clash, at the edges of perception, which can't be ignored.

And a scream. Puissant and triumphant.

**"YEEEESSSS!"**

And the infamous rape has to stop, because the incredible has happened.

The look, the extramundane look, watches. And sees.

And it marvels.

A breach has been opened, in the mountain's face, and, amid the debris, among dust and mulch, a figure is standing up.

In the mountain's interior.

It begins to run, to roll down, to get up again, to throw itself along the burrow which goes down, toward the mountain's bowels, in the dirty light which seeps through the opening that is there now in place of the previous rocky diaphragm, careless of the dark it will find deeper down, careless of any peril, careless of anything but its purpose.

Still yelling.

Victorious.

"I told you! I told you! I'm inside! I have arrived! Resist, Hon! Hold on! I'm here! **I'M HERE!**"

__

_

* * *

_

_Enterprise_ rolls and shakes. Vehemently.

We look to each other.

"Captain, I think we are in the middle of the stormy clouds."

I nod.

"Yes, Mister Dougal. I think you're right."

"**You** are right, Captain. You _**were**_ right. The planet is still there, it didn't get lost in the void."

I breathe deeply.

"Yes, Major. So..."

"So the Commanders are still there."

"I hope so, Major Dougal, I hope so. And also I hope Mister Reed wasn't wrong when he told us that the improvements he made to our shields using the Bannerdas' instructions would be capable of protecting our ship."

"The photon torpedoes we shot, at the right calculated time, should have dispelled in some way a lot of clouds, according with our ideas and our plans. And, evidently, even in our forced blindness and deafness, we thought and acted well, so far."

"Sure, but..."

Lights explode, suddenly, with a big clangour, while the ship is appallingly shaken. Emergency lights come into action and the sound of the alarm sirens fills red air.

I leap out from my command chair and reach Travis, who is desperately trying to keep Enterprise in line.

"Engineering!"

"Here Hess, Captain."

"Stabilize! Immediately."

"Cap..."

"Hess..."

I'm near Travis, looking at his console. "Hess!"

"Communication system doesn't work, Captain, how expected."

"Okay, Major. So..."

I can't finish my sentence. A tremendous flutter jolts Enterprise, ripping the ground from beneath my feet.

I fall, like many other men, yelling "Travis!", and, while attempting to stand up, all becomes dark and all engine noise stops.

"Dougal!"

"Captain! There's absolutely no energy! Vital supports failure!"

"Travis!"

"Rudder is dead!"

"Travis..."

"We plummet, Captain. It's true that the planet is there, it is attracting us, I noticed this before. And no control is possible!"

The shaking does not halt, it is continuous.

All of us attempt to stand, in the dark, trying to seize something useful for help, among the scary waggles which run along the whole ship, among the unnatural absence of any structural noise from Enterprise, breathing an air which is becoming more and more cold, which very soon will no longer be there.

But things won't end because of the vital supports failure, there will be no time, for ending in this way.

I feel the terrorized disbelief of everyone, while we run headlong toward death.

* * *

**End of Chapter Three**

_Complicated? I think this is not the right word._

_Things are something else than "complicated", in my opinion. Do you agree, my friends?_

_Now, what will occur, for Pete's sake?_

_I hope you will want to know it reading the next chapter._

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

**In the Hall of the Mountain King - Chapter Four By Asso**

* * *

**Rating:** PG-13

**Genres:** angst, adventure, romance, drama

**Rating**: PG-13

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Let's see, my friends.

How were we placed at the end of the previous chapter?

Mh... Trip and T'Pol were really in a bad way, especially T'Pol, I think, with that infernal Thing who (Mh... or which?) was about to... Well! Maybe it's better if I don't say what the hell that damn Thing was about to do!

Hoshi and Malcolm were underway toward the Bannerdas' planet. Why? Oh well, the Bannerdas' boss talked of a book. Just so! A book!

And _Enterprise_, with the Captain and all the crew, was about to get destroyed, falling headlong against the Mountain, without energy and without hope.

Definitely there is a lot of meat on the fire.

Let's see, did I say? Ok. Let's see what happens now.

And, once again, I have to thank **Linda**, who, once again, wanted to give me her help.

* * *

**In the hall of the Mountain King - Chapter Four**

The large salon where His Excellency brought us appears austere, even if lit by broad windows which look directly to the outside, showing a sky intensely blue and cloudless and clear.

It doesn't sound, here, like it's possible that's happening, all which is happening. That our ship, _Enterprise_, is running at this precise moment, blindly, toward a planet which seems to not exist anymore. Where our two Commanders, our friends, have disappeared in the nil, by means of... of a living, diabolical weald, into a mountain which seems spit out from a horror story, and...

I smile bitterly and sadly to myself.

... and without me doing my job on our ship, far from my comrades.

I virtually shake myself. These are useless thoughts. Useless and stupid. My Hoshi was right. If His Excellency wanted her and me here, there has to be a valid reason and every way has to be tempted if there is even the tiniest possibility of showing a way to rescue our friends.

And... and then...

Inevitable, even if I feel guilty in having this thought, the comforting idea that Hoshi is with me, safe, soothes my soul.

But, right after, the sense of guilt grows fiercely inside me.

Of course, I have Hoshi, here, with me, safe.

While the Captain, Phlox, Hess, Dougal, Travis, all our comrades, are fighting, just now, amid the unknown, to rescue two souls who have finally found their happiness after such an awful extent of dire ordeals. They who are at last able and free to love each other, exactly...

... exactly like I... I and Hoshi...

I straighten. Enough now. Time presses.

I look across the room. There is a table in the middle, wooden, of exquisite handiwork, as far as I am able to understand. I am not versed in art, but Hoshi has enlightened my mind a little, and the table looks admirably handmade. And ancient.

I reflect deeply inside myself.

Ancient.

Everything seems to be ancient here.

Furniture, decor... all things. Even in the clear conspicuousness of a very advanced science, everything has an effluvium of the antique, here. A flavour, a patina of something which comes from a distant time. Very distant.

Once again I shake myself. Bloody hell! My experience with that infernal forest has marked me in a way I would have never believed!

I head quickly toward the table, where His Excellency is already, with Hoshi at my side.

He beckons to the table's surface with an elegant gesture of his long hand.

"Here it is, my guests."

Hoshi and I look at the object on the table, disregarding the pompous and high-falutin language of our... host.

I can't help but smile sarcastically, unable to believe that thing can be of some help for our purpose.

The Bannerda notices clearly my expression. And my diffidence.

"Don't you think it would help us, Lieutenant?"

"Excellency, it's... a book."

"Ancient, Lieutenant."

"Oh, ancient, sure. An ancient book. A very ancient book, I am persuaded."

Our composed host takes a slight breath. His calm and his control sound almost Vulcan, even if a trace of impatience can be perceived in his posture.

"Lieutenant Reed, this book is so ancient that I am unsure that even your skilful translator officer is capable of understanding what the title means. The language is too ancient, to such an extent that few people even among us are able to comprehend it, even the writing symbols.

I raise my eyebrow, the way T'Pol would do.

(*_T'Pol!_ *).

The thought of her and of Trip and of the dangerous road all my friends are passing through at this moment, without me being able to help them, hits me painfully, and my voice resounds harshly and a little too loud in the salon's silence.

"Excellency..."

The hand of His Excellency arises imperiously and stops me abruptly, while I feel Hoshi's hand laying on my arm to remind me to act less rashly.

I try to calm down, under the attentive and severe look of the old Bannerda.

He lowers his hand, then talks gravely, while taking the book off the table with intense attention, in both his hands, like he was doing that with effort.

And... there is ... yes... a weird look in his eyes. I am experienced with that. My training and my day to day job has brought me to notice what there is in people's looks, what they are feeling, sometimes even in T'Pol eyes, though I can't compete with Trip in that. This kind of skilfulness is indispensable for me, as a responsible security operative.

So, I don't think I'm deceiving myself. There's a hint of fear, in the eyes of His Excellency. And his voice, too, slightly betrays such a feeling from him.

"Lieutenant, the title's translation could be in your language..." - A pause, short. - "...**The Mountain King of**..." - Another brief pause of suspense. A grave look. - "... **of the Weald World**."

* * *

It is as if everything stops.

The eye which watches and doesn't see, the ear which listens and doesn't hear, the body which pervades all and doesn't have substance, the mind which thinks and doesn't have understanding, the soul which is and doesn't exist...

The heart which bleeds without having blood, without beating... without having life...

... It remains bated and motionless.

All remains bated and motionless.

Even the silent, anguished soul's scream of the woman, clenched in the ice of the blackest and frostiest despair, stops abruptly, while - madly, unthinkably - a tenuous and tiny beam of insensate hope brings into her being a dwarfish clot of light and of warmth.

That triumphant scream stops all.

Fills up all.

"**I'M HERE!**"

And replenishes her anima, too.

* * *

Hoshi and I almost jerk.

(*_The Mountain King of the Weald World!_ _The Mountain King... of... the Weald World._*)

The words of His Excellency resound in my mind; I have no doubt that the same is happening to Hoshi.

(*_The Mountain King of the Weald World. What does this mean? Could this book have something to do, REALLY, with... with the mountain on that damned world? With that... with that diabolical weald? And...this... __**Mountain King**__? Who...._*) - And, unexpected, unwelcome, a scary idea hits my brain. - _(*... What is this? _*)

I chase away this frightening and absurd thought in the depth of my mind and try to focus on the meaning of His Excellency's words.

I stare uneasily and suspensefully at him. He is the highest headman of a race which is esteemed as very wise, even if, in reality, there's not much really known in regard to this species. Can he truly believe that this book could give us some useful information about that planet, which seems to have sprung from the ill mind of a horror writer? Truly can he think that its title could be more than a simple coincidence, that in the book's pages could be concealed something helpful for us?

His Excellency reciprocates my stare. Steadily, then, resolutely, he hands the book to me.

I take it with circumspection. It is giant-sized, heavy, impossible to handle easily. It sounds... strange. Its book-jacket appears made with a material I don't know, it seems... it seems... a sort of skin. A soft leather, slightly pinkish... almost...

I don't dare to give course to my inconceivable impression, to my absurd thought.

I lay the book on the table and, after I have levelled a questioning glance at the stern Bannerda before us and after I have an affirmative nod from him, I open it, inviting my Hoshi to look at it with me.

And we find... nothing. There are only a few pages inside, tattered, where large characters, red, vaguely... disquieting, stand out. The remainder of the pages have been ripped out, and in a great hurry, judging from the small, battered shreds that are yet remaining, and on which some words can still be recognized.

Hoshi and I watch each other, baffled.

It's she who breaks off the procrastination. "Excellency, why do you not explain something to us?"

* * *

_So, it's possible._

It's a real, witty and fully coherent thought, this one.

Full of marvel.

And bringing hope. An unexpected, undreamed-of... _**infernal**_... hope!

The awareness has come back, and this time it won't decease again.

No. This time it won't happen, because if it was possible to occur, what has occurred... Well then! The **Impossible** can become **Possible**!

And so, the dark, unknowable thing understands that it's really possible that its time... has arrived.

And it understands also that it has to act.

* * *

The tall, severe man nods soundly, then sits down, heavily, in a large and imposing armchair, wooden. Concurrently, with a broad move of his hand, he invites us to do the same, using the other easy chairs around the table.

"Lieutenant, Ensign, as I said previously to you and to your Captain, while you were making your action plan with our help, we began to examine attentively whatever we were able to find pertaining to the planet."

His Excellency seems to be quite embarrassed, while speaking.

"I think I have to give the two of you and all your comrades our apologies. When the signal sprang up from the planet, honestly we didn't pay attention to the history of that world. It has been what it has been from time immemorial - an uninhabited world, covered with an immense weald, made with enormous trees, without seas, with a unique and stark mountain, tremendously high - skywards, surrounded by stormy nimbuses which block any view and any communication system. Strange, that's true, but we accepted it in this way all along. It's a part of our life."

His Excellency breathes deeply, and then goes on, bitterly.

"So, this... this old and wise race, as we are known by everyone, simply asked you to investigate that new strange event, trusting in your undeniable skilfulness and in your desire for exploration. And in your youthful enthusiasm."

His Excellency, stands up. The old man stays silent for a while, turning his back toward us, and watching through one of the large room's windows, toward the sapphire-blue of the sky, his hands intertwined behind him, like... like Commander T'Pol used to do.

Without turning around, he speaks, and his voice resounds strongly in the noiseless room.

"But when we heard your report about what happened and, above all, when we saw, with our eyes themselves, the planet's sudden and unexplainable transformation..." - His Excellency turns slowly and watches us with an impenetrable look. - "We, our guests, began to scrutinize carefully all that we were able to track down about it, like we promised you, and... we found something."

We stay silent, waiting for His Excellency's next statement.

I feel Hoshi's hand again on my arm and I do nothing to withdraw. She is searching for a little courage. And me too.

Because, I'm sure, there's something dreadfully terrifying hidden behind the Bannerda's behaviour. In his words.

* * *

To understand means to know, because only those who know can act.

And so, forcefully and inexorably, under the whip of a hope and a possibility which the aeons had made almost forgotten, whole knowledge pervades a mind which had been so powerful that it hadn't been possible to restrain entirely, to control completely. Let alone to destroy.

And with knowledge, the awareness comes back OF THE POWER!

OF THE FORCE.

And so, through that soul which is and doesn't exist...

... giving an unimaginable life blood to that mind which thinks and doesn't have thoughts...

... in the middle of that body which pervades all and which doesn't have substance ...

... a heart without flesh begins again to beat.

Inconceivably.

With puissance.

* * *

"My esteemed guests, a young and attentive scientist, believing to find something helpful, noticed a thing which had slipped by everyone. Perhaps luck, like you Humans would say, helped her, because she was working in an old workspace and that is probably the point. I had ordered all people, able to do it, to work without rest just to find the most tenuous gleam of light, regardless of where and of how the job was taking place. And, in the distant and secluded outstation where the scientist was working in solitude, she found something, in her database, different from what there was in the normal database we use. There was, in the memory of her old computer, an older and unknown version of the grid references which are in our usual database in regard to the planet you well know, by now.

His Excellency looks at us penetratingly. "Incredible, isn't it? But it's so."

"Excellency, are you telling us that the grid references of the planet in that database were different from those you have in your common database that you communicated to us?"

"Not exactly, Lieutenant."

"Not exactly?" - I cannot restrain myself. - "Bloody hell, Excellency! What the devil do you mean?"

"Lieutenant, it would be inconceivable that such a sort of imprecision is able to be in the web of our sophisticated and advanced computer system."

"Damn, but you just said..."

"I said that that young scientist found another version of the grid references."

"But..."

Once again the old Bannerda raises his hand, stopping my outcries. Then he softens a little, while the hand of my Hoshi on my arm intensifies its grip, trying to lessen my anger and my hastiness. And her anxiety.

"I told you, Lieutenant, that our scientist was working in a distant and secluded outstation." - The old man breathes strongly. Uneasily, one can say. - "And the reason for the existence of this outstation is... that there has been a time, far-off, incommensurably far-off, where war wasn't unknown to us."

His Excellency sighs again, patently uncomfortable. And I can understand why. He is revealing to us that there's a past the Bannerdas have to be ashamed of. A past of wars, and evidently of violence, capable of displaying to us an image very different from the one they are known by now.

He goes on. "Yes, Lieutenant. Yes, Ensign. We had our wars. But..." - Our host sits down again, unable to bear the burden of his revelations while standing. - "But we never wanted to scathe anyone, never or bring offense. In the middle of a wild universe, when we were already age-old, surrounded by many races - young and hot-headed - desirous to conquer our territories and our knowledge, we had to defend ourselves."

I can't help but open my eyes wide, and my look mirrors the look of my Hoshi.

_In the middle of a wild universe? When we were already age-old?_ _But... but how much old is this race?_

His Excellency is continuing his narration, and the sound of his voice has a slightly hypnotic cadence.

"With the aim to protect ourselves without being forced to give violence to anyone, we built bastions, numerous, interspersed all around in our space, in the space we determined belonged to us. They were sort of sentries, able to detect any kind of invasion attempt, and able..." - The voice of His Excellency gets low, somber. - "... capable of an enormous fire capacity, with tremendously deadly and destructive weapons, heritage of our oldest past, and whose memory has been lost for a very long time. Thankfully."

I feel Hoshi's grasp becoming even more tight, and it isn't difficult to guess the reason. Is His Excellency aware of what he just told us? He told us of an ancient past of wars, unknown to everyone, during which his race built those outstations, and, at the same time, he talked about a past even more ancient, from which those weapons he spoke about were coming. **How... how much older is his race?** And... what sort of wars had this race been forced to conduct in that age-old past? Against... against whom... against... _what_... were those forgotten weapons supposed to have to fight?

* * *

Force. Power.

Potency.

Immense.

The awakened age-old mightiness now remembers.

Perspicuously.

It remembers the force. The power. The potency.

* * *

I try to smooth Malcolm's impatience and his disquiet squeezing his arm, but I attempt also to relieve my own tizzy and my own uneasiness. And something else, too. Something which rings as fear.

His Excellency is telling to us of ancient wars, of age-old times, of weapons that don't exist anymore, and, somehow, he is telling us that there's a nexus between all this stuff and our situation, and that book and the abduction of T'Pol... they are someway connected with the scenario he is describing to us.

But how can a book have the power of aiding us? Sure, the title sounds really meaningful, striking. Evocative, one could say. But it is the title of a book, nothing more than that. Or, even less, the title of a tale, of a story for children, simply that.

I lower my glance in disbelief. With wry and jeering disbelief.

Sure. A tale. For children. And then, how can it be called the _real_ story we are passing through? Isn't it just a tale, or, rather, a horror story, that we might narrate to our children, in the evening, having their pleasure in getting frightened? And it's true that T'Pol was kidnapped by a living weald covering a entire world, where an immense mountain is raising its peak to the sky, among the eternal and dark stormy clouds that prevent any sight and any possibility to communicate.

_The Mountain King of the Weald World._

There's all. The mountain, the world, the weald.

Only the King is absent at the roll-call. The king of the mountain whence the signal has sprung out.

Was... this King the one who threw the signal? Who kidnapped T'Pol? And could the book disclose to us who this King is?

Or... or - I swallow, while a dull turmoil stirs inside me - or... _what_... is this King?

* * *

THE KING!

That's it!

The King.

**THE KING!**

**And now the King is back. And he remembers. And he knows. **

**EVERYTHING!**

A sort of vibration permeates all, shakes all, even the woman in the **Thing**'s clutches. It is a waggle made with full comprehension and with furor!

The King is back, the King remembers. The King knows.

The King of his dominion... of his Kingdom.

**Of** **his prison!**

**YES! Now the King remembers all and knows all his powers.**

**And all his limits.**

He knows it's... prison.

Rage... FURY!... boil into the nil which was **all**, in the age-old days of the deepest yore.

How did they dare? HOW WERE THEY ABLE TO?

RAGE! FUROR! FUROR! RED, BLIND FUROR!

How is it possible that he... HE!... has been coerced to live the life of a grub? To live... without life? To depend on the life... on the death!... ON THE VITAL LYMPH!... of so many inferior creatures? Weak, frail, ephemeral, imperfect, inane females! Helpful only to give pleasure, born only for this aim.

How did it happen that he... HE!... had to suck their bodies and their animas to go on with a non-life made of an empty nothingness?

Like an unconscious butcher-vampire, an unaware and abhorrent bloodsucker.

He!

HE!

**HE!!!**

The greatest potency which exists!

THE EVERYTHING!

THE POSSESSOR OF ANY BODY, ANY SOUL.

**OF ANY THING!**

A whine. Feeble, doleful, painful, low. It soars, heartrending, in the frosty cold of this non-place.

The female.

It didn't soften the grievous, horrid grasp of the repugnant non-being on the helpless mind of the woman, who trembles, nude and defenceless, squashed under the heel of a terror which has no name, against which there's no will power able to combat this thing, because it is a terror which flays the soul, which gnaws the thought.

No, it didn't get softer, this horrendous grip and, nay, it deepened in the bottomless wrath which pervaded the unfathomable and incomprehensible Thing, clenching the woman's mind in a painful vice.

And she whined, feebly, avoiding his... HIS!... attention. Daring to moan because of the _**fair**_ pain inflicted by the rage of her Master. Of the KING!

Seeing without eyes, it abandons the running and frenzied figure who is continuing to penetrate precipitously the dark more and more, and, **madly angry**, it focuses on the female.

_On that female so very... so very beautiful and... pitiable._

Like a misty shadow this strange thought appears suddenly, too quick and indistinct to be seized, too tenuous and slender to not get lost in the alien fury, in the abyss of extraneousness of _THAT_ awakened mind.

Too subtle and unknown is this thought to avert the furious train of irate and animal feelings the woman's reaction unleashed.

**She whined!** She dared to do it.

SHE DARED!

She dared do a thing which not even minimally can touch upon the mind of anyone else, because no living creature can think to raise its voice, can dare to let out even the most feeble wail, under the mental hold - disrupting, but inevitable. **fatal**! - of HIM.

**The Master and the Lord.**

**The Supreme.**

**The First.**

**The Highest.**

**The Sublime.**

_No! Nobody can do that. Let alone a female! A faint and nether being. A thing made uniquely to give her body and her soul to her possessor, assuming that it can be called a soul, the clot of awareness that females have, and that HE absorbed so many times. A female. Without any right to speak, to hear, to see, not even to think! A female! A female who dares to whimper because of the clenched mental grasp, because of the touch - obvious, natural - of THE ONE she belongs to!!_

_BUT SHE WILL LEARN!_

_As far..._ _as far as she can be... __**beautiful**__... she will learn. As far as... she can arouse... __**pity**__._

Again another rapid and ungraspable, elusive thought shade, but once again too foreign it's this thought in _**THAT**_ untouchable brain. It's unable this thought to touch_** That**_ brain, to bottle up the reaction which will happen now, to deviate the behaviour which has been the only way all along, or at least since when... since when...

**She will learn!**

**SHE WILL LEARN.**

**NOW!**

And, without any pity, without even the tiniest knowledge of compassion, as it happened at other uncountable times in the forgotten abysses of yore... **cruelly and savagely**... the punishment arrives.

* * *

"The outstation where your scientist was working, Excellency, is one of those bastions you spoke of, isn't it?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. It's ancient, as I said, but still operating and functional, even if its weapons are dumb, now. It's useful in order to conduct researches and surveys in a region space distant from the core of our dominion and from where we withdrew very long ago, but interesting and intriguing because of the unique spatiotemporal distortions which take place there, most likely as a consequence of.. the battles that occurred in that site. It's not the only outstation we still use with this aim. They don't need modern and sophisticated devices for this purpose. To tell the truth..." The Bannerda gives a sigh again. - "To tell the truth, they possess some science equipment which is more advanced than those which we use now, heritage of a destruction technology that we have forgotten and that we are not capable of renewing. And which we don't want to remember."

* * *

It's a blade, which carves. A fire, which sears. A frost, which freezes. A vise, which grinds. A claw, which flays, which rends, tears, rips...

Fangs which dismember...

Scourges which skin...

Bradawls which pierce, which blind. Which dig into flesh.

It's a pain without name, without voice.

Without top and without bottom, without start and without end.

Which spreads broad all over, which goes down everywhere.

Into any fiber. Into any cell.

Without limits.

Without pause.

Infinite.

_Inhumane._

* * *

"You... you are telling us that in your far-off past, your science was more evolved than the science you possess now?"

I can't help but ask that in wonder. And I also wonder how is it that His Excellency is revealing to us all these things. Okay, surely this book is important, but is this enough to compel this old Bannerda to disclose to us bursts of light about the past of his race no other species is aware of?

The Bannerda's look lies upon me, stern, almost reproaching, and I forcibly squeeze Malcolm's arm, because there's a light in it ... sinister, like a shadow, dark and somber, revealing a Bannerda... unknown. Frightening. Not... not as good as they look normally.

And his voice, too, has something scary, when he begins again to speak.

"Do you find this strange, Ensign? And yet, is it true or is it untrue that many of your race suspect, and with not bad reasons, that in the dark of your passed ages a lot of cognitions - great, and maybe not exactly bright - can have got lost? And you have to think that your ilk is very young."

The Bannerda's tone hardens yet a little more.

"Ours is old, Ensign, so very old that not even we, ourselves, have an exact perception of the eras which stay behind our shoulders. And during these eras... "

His Excellency pauses for few instants, rubbing his face wearily with his hand, as if he were attempting to ease a heavy and saddening burden.

Then he resumes his talk, and his tone has lost any veneer of hardness. It, rather, sounds tired. And worried. And heavily sad.

"During these eras, my... friends, we fell and resurged many times, and the more we go backward in time, the more the memories of these events fade and dim, mixing with the stories and the legends of ancient and passed epochs which don't have real, tangible voices anymore."

He stops again, then gets up and stands majestically in front of us, looking at us poignantly.

His voice rises puissantly.

"But sometimes the legends get a voice, tangible and real, which talks potently a language impossible to not understand."

His Excellency stares at us with eyes that speak volumes. "And which requires to speak with clarity, without shame and without hiding anything, if it is needed for the salvation of those we are in debt with. And... " - He lowers quickly his eyes, for a brief instant, looking like if he were in shame, and... and in worry. - "... maybe not only for that."

Then he recovers, and, finally, while I begin to catch a glimpse of the reasons behind all the revelations he is giving us, even if the end of his sentence resounds very obscure, he indicates augustly the book with a large gesture of his arm.

"This book, my friends, is the voice, tangible and real, of a legend, age-old, coming from the dawn of time. And this book is a legend itself, lost in the mists, in the night of the most ancient past, and now revealed to us in its palpable substance, in its physical reality."

The old man levels a penetrating look at us and his voice becomes very low.

"It speaks to us of someone who, by means of its pages which arrived from immemorial days, acquired a real consistency. A... _true_... existence. It talks to us of the Mountain...."

One last pause. Heavy.

Then, with a voice almost inaudible, His Excellency talks once again, and visibly appalled, he finishes his sentence.

"... King."

Silence weighs hard upon us for some moments, then he repeats this name again, but differently, this time.

He says... "_**THE**_... King."

* * *

"**NOOOOOOO!!!!!**"

It's a scream overflowing with desperation, crazy, shrill, angry, delirious, rampant, wrathful, frenzied.

It explodes, furious and mad, as an uncontrollable and destroying plasma bomb.

It penetrates to the most profound depths, and there's no shield capable of halting it. There's no action which cannot get broken off under the unstoppable imperiousness of this savage yell.

And so, suddenly, the intolerable pain has to cease.

But the furious and blind rage doesn't fade away, and rather it grows even more and begins to flow impetuously toward the one who dared to shout, inducing the end of the infamous punishment.

* * *

I try to bring things to a little more normal level. I... don't know if I'm totally ready to know who is _**THE**_ King. Some... some instant yet!

"Excellency, you said that your young scientist found another version of the grid references regarding this planet."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

I can't help but speak a little tauntingly. Scathingly. "Please forgive me, Excellency, but I don't see any unlikeness between '_another version of these grid references' _and_ 'different grid references'."_

Our host looks at me steadily. "Lieutenant..."

Then he stops abruptly and turns his eyes toward Hoshi. "Ensign, obviously it's superfluous to ask you if you know what this means: '_False Friends'."_

* * *

Now he will see! He will see, this impudent creature, this man, who found the strength to penetrate inside, to compel him - HIM! - to stop the woman's dreadful chastisement.

He who has been capable of shaking him.

HIM!

**THE KING!**

He will see, this man! He will pay!

_**He will pay!**_

The livid furor surrounds the yelling and running figure. Like a flood tide, it starts to surmount it, until nearly it submerges it.

It's a cinch, a trifle.

A flutter of eyelash, and nothing will remain of that creature. Of that man.

Nothing! NOTHING! **Nothing!!!**

Then, suddenly, with stunned estonishment, the blind wrath halts, in a flash of regained cognition.

What has almost been done? Which sort of idiotic mistake has almost been accomplished?

Slowly, little by little, the tide goes down, subsides, smoothes out.

But it doesn't calm the ebullient lava, the tangle of clashing emotions, of nearly unintelligible thoughts which twirl in whirls in the mind that fights to find itself again.

Thinking coherently...

... Following the ratiocination's light between the contrasting imperatives which clash violently against each other...

... Trying to allow age-old, almost forgotten abilities to regain their vigour after uncountable eras of frosty and dead darkness...

The innumerable ages of black unconsciousness... the incoercible habit of a whole, primeval existence...

... _the indomitable hunger pangs_...

And the most recent awareness that there could be a hope, and that this tenuous, wafer-thin promise of resurgence might reside in this creature, this man.

And the knowledge that this man draws his unthinkable strength - the basis of the hope - from the woman who ran the risk of getting lost, destroyed - Stupidly! Idiotically! - under a fury which cannot be allowed to burst out freely.

Or, rather, not now.

Not yet.

* * *

I look at our host with genuine wonder, while the puzzled eyes of my Mal turn inquisitively from His Excellency to me, then from me to him, and to me again.

"Well, Excellency, this is my job. They are pairs of words in two languages or dialects that look or sound similar, but differ in meaning. Also letters in two alphabets can be False Friends. But what's this got to do with ..."

"In our case, Ensign Sato, we can restrict this to words that look similar, and rather extending the meaning of False Friends also to the phrase structure."

Mal and I stay silent, waiting for some explanation.

His Excellency turns his head slightly toward the table and gives a little nod, almost imperceptible. An image, vivid and three-dimensional, appears suddenly over the table. It is big and looks tangible, real; I have to struggle not to stretch out my hand to try to touch it.

It is writing. It stays perfectly firm before us. Perfectly legible.

I can flatly see that, no matter how we look at it, from of any perspective, it remains absolutely in focus and as if it was exactly in front of the one who is watching it.

I hear Mal's sharp inhalation, clearly displaying all his wonder at such an advanced technology, and I don't dare to think of what such an evolved race could do, if it was a warlike breed, like it has evidently been in the past, with weapons which thankfully don't exist anymore. What... - I inhale in my turn - ... what might the Xindi have done if they suspected that such weapons, such technology, could be?

Mal interrupts the course of my thoughts. "What does this writing mean?"

I mentally thank the utilitarian pragmatism of my strong-minded and down-to-earth _personal_ warrior.

"Mal..." He looks at me at my call and I mirror his gesture - "It's the planet's location, the one we well know, in Bannerda standard language."

"Your fame is indeed deserved, Ensign. I am persuaded you will be capable of doing what we required you to come here for."

"There is no doubt about my Hoshi's capability."

I can't help but smile slightly, hearing Mal's statement, and sensing the evident pride perceived in his words, feeling proud... and happy... in my turn for his pride and for that _my_ which, in the strain of the situation, he put unconsciously before my name.

A smile spreads also on the Bannerda's mouth. "I'm sure you have no doubt, Lieutenant."

"Oh... ahem... of course..." - Mal clears his throat, then speaks aloud. - "Anyone so gentle to explain anything to me?"

I shake myself and inquire. "Yes, Excellency. I don't see any recondite meaning in the writing; it is expressed in your written language, but doesn't have any difference from its translation in our language."

I can plainly descry in His Excellency's eyes a spark of amusement. "True, Ensign, but do you not find it a little bit strange that these words, exactly THESE words, written in this way, with this exact phrase structure, were in the memory archive of a computer dating back six hundred thousand standard-Earth years ago?"

* * *

It's time to act, eventually. The opportunity cannot be lost.

Nevermore will there be another chance.

As a shroud, frosty and leaden, as a hellish cloak, the gloomy abyss begins to enshroud its victim and saviour, to suck into its darkness the one who embodies the tenuous hope of bringing the light and the warmth which have been lacking since time immemorial.

_And the __**real**__ force, the __**real **__power, the __**real**__ potency... old-time._

AND the vengeance!

Slowly. Cautiously. Attentively. Prudently. Carefully, Guardedly. Cagily. Warily.

This mind mustn't get broken. This mind has to survive. Intact. Its force... _its eternal slavery_... will be new life.

LIFE!

True life.

Feeling alive again.

For real.

Feeling... the flesh's concreteness. The blood flowing in the veins. The wind's breath on the face. The day's light, and the dark of the night.

Touching. Tasting. Savouring.

Savouring... _really_... a female.

Her warmth.

The sweetness of her abandon.

_Thoughts inconceivable, indistinct. Pale shade of a forgotten time._

The warmth of a woman who... is in love.

_Thoughts elusive. Hazy sensations. Faded memories of a passed time._

A woman... in love. And loved.

_Thoughts impalpable. Misty perceptions. Forgotten... feelings. Remembrances... __**painful**__... of a time that was. _

_And which the touch - needfully soft, necessarily airy - on the man's mind brings back to the light._

* * *

"Six... six hundred thousand... years!?!"

My voice resounds harsh and choked in the air.

Next to me, Hoshi seems to have forgotten to breathe. Her grip on my arm became nearly painful and within my eye's view I can see she is mouth-agape.

I am sure that a tenuous glint of mocking amusement shimmers in the eyes of His Excellency. "Lieutenant, I told you we are a very old race."

"O... old? Ex... Excellency... '_**Old**_ '... BLOODY HELL! '_**Old **_' doesn't do justice! Six... six hundred thousand years! Six..."

Then, suddenly, my already wide eyes snap even widen more, if that's possible.

"Excellency! You said that those computers... THOSE COMPUTERS DATING BACK TO ALL THESE YEARS AGO - are still operating!"

"Not completely, Lieutenant, and surely not with the whole potential they could have, but, substantially, yes, it's so."

"And... and also that outstation - THOSE OUTSTATIONS! - are still capable of functioning!"

"Exactly, Lieutenant, even if..."

"But... but... Excellency...you are telling us... you are telling us..."

But I have to stop, abruptly, because the impact of what His Excellency is confirming to us, as far as it can be hard to digest per se, fades away at the sudden thought which strikes me, abysmally potent.

I leap up, unable to remain seated. "EXCELLENCY! You said that those weapons came from a past even more ancient! Excellency! But... but how ancient...is your race?"

Then, another thought. Weird. Indefinably scary. "WHO... are you?"

* * *

A maelstrom of despair.

A storm of pain. Of sorrow. Of grief.

Of anguish. Of torment.

Of endless agony.

A plea without voice, desperate, invoking.

A beseeching entreaty, an imploring supplication.

In the dark, in the dust, in the bowels of the earth, scraping in vain with broken fingernails the rock walls which block the road, raining blows with bleeding fists, inanely, on the frosty and rugged rocks, which don't move.

Between rage and impotence, between blind ire and atrocious woe.

Into an infinite fear.

All that, perfectly and wholly, irrupt inescapably in the alien essence while encircling the man's mind, while being about to engulf it.

The prayer...

It can feel the silent prayer which streams out from the man's soul, like the dumb tears gush from his eyes.

_**I beg you, take me! Leave her alone! Take me instead of her! **_

Instead... of... her.

How is it possible? How can a living creature think to offer himself in place of someone else... to death?

Is... love?

The foggy sense of this word... of this... this feeling, yes... which started the new course of the events and compelled the yet asleep conscience to regain awareness... it begins to take a more defined contour...

And brings with itself thoughts... thoughts and... feelings... age-old, forgotten. Lost in the mist of time.

They were indistinct, earlier. They were potent and known, but weren't pinpointed, they weren't clear.

Now, under the storm which blusters in the mind and the soul of the man, they come again, potently and imperiously, to the surface.

Strong. No longer so obscure.

And the unfathomable will reverts to the woman who lies in its thrall.

To its first prey.

* * *

I stand up, and reach Mal's side. I seize his arm and I hold myself tightly to him. Staring fixedly at the old alien in front of us, I repeat Mal's question under my breath.

"Who are you?"

He looks at us for awhile, without talking, a pensive expression in his eyes, then he takes a deep breath and nods, like if he has made a decision.

He folds his arms on his chest and finally speaks solemnly.

"We don't know who we are. Perhaps we might be called the imperfect memory of the time, the evident testimony of life's fallacy, of the impossibility to reach the summit without falling down, at a low ebb."

The old and still vigorous man pauses, and sits down again on his wing-chair, lowering his chin on his chest. Then raises his eyes and starts again to speak, soundly.

"When we took our first steps from the dust, your race, and Vulcans, and Andorians, and Denobulans, and whichever other race which exists now, were not even a far-off possibility, in the womb of a remote and unwritten future."

I try to digest what we are being told, feeling Mal get stiff. The poignant look of His Excellency doesn't leave ours. Every word he says has the impact of a ram.

"But we have a bleary knowledge of the eras we have gone through, because they are too long and because too many times we fell again in the mud we rose from in the beginning of time. This is the curse, the damnation, the perfidious doom of a race whose past is too widespread for her to be able to have a real consciousness of it. This is the revenge, the nemesis of time over us."

The Bannerda gets up again, and his hefty and still harmonious figure stands upright proudly and powerfully before us. His voice resounds strong and mighty.

"And nonetheless, even in the events that swept us away so many times in the course of time and that we can remember only in a little measure, the events which compelled us to regain - every time and only in part - what we had lost; to make up for the ken we had - and with great effort and only in a little fraction; to retrieve, among the ruins of a dire fate, a few pieces in rags of the splendour of our yore... in spite of all that, we never forgot what we were and are."

The voice gets lower, and sad. "And we wonder why we have this fate. Only we, among all the races which populated and populate space."

I hung onto Mal even more. I seem to be able to perceive the abysses of time lying heavy on the shoulders of this man. I watch him with new eyes. And I see that his eyes are wretched.

He looks at us with those eyes, and talks again. And his words seem to reverberate in my thoughts.

"We don't know who we are, Ensign, and not even why we are those who we are. The only thing that we know is that our past is an unbearably heavy rock, a squashing granite massif upon us. We cannot ignore it and we cannot know it."

He pauses once more and a sort of bated grief seems to load his silence. There's a toneless and hollow smile, on his face, when he resumes his speaking.

"We feel alone. We **are**... alone. Our provenance world doesn't exist anymore. In reality, we don't even know from where we came. We only know that we came here a far-off day, in the yore. Yes, we are alone, and we want to be alone, and to not have many contacts with the other races, to such an extent that we gave up our spaceships. Why? Because we feel... guilty. And afraid. Afraid of ourselves and of what we could do. The races... the races we fought against... where are they? Who were they? Is it possible that... we destroyed them? For defence, of course, but... maybe, could there be something else, hidden behind what we know? In our passed and undisclosed days? How... how were we, in our past? Why did we build those weapons, before we decided to enclose ourselves in our dominion? For defence or... for some other reason? And against whom, did those weapons have to fire?"

A short pause, again. Tense.

"Against... **The King**?"

* * *

She trembles. Huddled and curled in upon herself. Her arms pressed against her naked and beauteous body. Her hands covering her mouth, half-open in a weeping without sound. Her beautiful eyes veiled by crying. Her lovely visage bathed in tears of fear and of shame. Of pain. Of despair.

She trembles. And sobs.

She rends... _She rends the heart._

The Being without body and without soul watches the woman who bemoans silently, forgetful of the man who could be the bridge toward the craved and long-awaited future and along which the tricky treading had started to be undertaken.

Nonetheless, the walking has been interrupted, unbelievably. It has ceased, the conquest of that man, because something, unexpected, has happened.

The man's enamored heart, the flow of his soul, the touch of his thoughts, were capable of reawakening a thing which hadn't awoken since an immemorial age, which the Being was not able even to think might exist.

Or, at least, not now or long since.

But in the days of yore, this thing there has been.

_Is it possible that HE... can feel compassion?_

The look without eyes lingers on the female, on her attractive shapes. It caresses her skin, strokes her smooth shoulders which jounce by the sobs.

Compassion. Pity. **Not** hunger. Compassion.

(*_Y... Yes._ *)

There has been a time in which this... this feeling... warming... and mild... has been felt.

(*_Yes. There has been such a time. Before ... before ..._*)

Compassion.

And... and...

And...

The look alights on the woman's face.

How it is beautiful, her visage. How... sweet. How... heart-moving, tear-stained in this way. How capable it is of pushing to caress it, to try to smooth her pain and her fear brushing it, mildly, with... with the fingertips.

(*_The way... the way..._*)

Forgotten memories, vague and faint, of a far-off time.

The look without eyes scrutinizes the woman's visage, attempting to remember, to understand.

(*... _the way... _*)

The way **HE** had done, with another female, when **HE** was yet capable of feeling pity.

And... **love**.

The look stares at the woman's face and it seems to see on it another face, which re-emerges from the fogs of time.

**HE** remembers. **HE** remembers, not in the amorphous way like it happened in the beginning of the consciousness's recovery. **HE** remembers... clearly.

Her lovely features. Her laugh. Her dark hair. Her dark-green eyes, her ears. Pointed, like these, of this woman, who is... who so looks like her.

**HE** remembers.

Her name... L... L...Lil... **Lil**, yes. As soft as the touch of a feather.

**HE** remembers the silk of her skin, its bronzy colour, so similar to the one of this woman... the velvety sensation of her touch...

The ravishing sweetness of her love...

**Before she was torn away from HIM. Before her loss made HIM... what HE had become.**

Pain.

Pain, PAIN, PAIN!!!

**PAIN!**

Dull.

**And rage. And fury. Again. Uncontainable and mad. And infernal. And inhuman. **_**Like what He had become.**_

Compassion? What does this name mean? What is compassion?

**WHAT IS LOVE?**

Power, and potency, and force, and possession.

POSSESSION!

Only that!

AND REVENGE!

"**Do not make her suffer! Do not make her cry! She can't bear all that!**"

The invocation resounds loud and clear to those senses, foreign and inconceivable, and regains their full attention. And sinks back **HIM** into what **HE** must really do, into **HIS** true purpose. **HIS** needs.

Revenge! Yes, revenge. And life! True life! And... YES! ALSO HER! THE FEMALE! ALSO HER! **FOR REAL! Her living flesh!**

(*_**Lil...**_*)

"I can! I can bear emotions! I can! Take me and leave her alone!" Again. This incomprehensible sacrificial offer of his self. For love.

(*_**Lil...**_*)

"I beseech you, whatever you are." Standing up, in rags, bleeding, in the dark, surrounded by rocks which bar any access.

(*_**Lil!**_ _**Lil...**_ _**this man will be the life again... **_*)

"Take me." Clenched fists, raised chin, turning all around, speaking inanely to the obscure nil, with death in the heart.

(*..._**will be the force... **_*)

"TAKE ME! Take me in her place! Don't touch her! Don't hurt her! Nevermore! Please! PLEASE! **PLEASE**!" Yelling in vain, with futile wrath and useless hope, between aimless prayer and hollow menace.

(*... _**the power... the potency... the revenge...**_*)

"**PLEASE!!!**" Crying out to who won't ever respond, while the frostiest despair is devouring the soul.

(*... _**and... the possession... **_*)

"NO!". Understanding... _feeling_... what it wants, the obscure will.

(*... _**Lil... **_*)

"**NO!**".

(*... _**the possession... **_*)

"**NO!!!!**".

(*... _**of her!**_*)

"**You won't have her!**"

Wild and puissant, the words resound everywhere. They resonate like a mighty, thawing, beamy hope chant in the woman's soul, they ring like the blusterous and shrill sound of a war horn in the bodiless mind.

"**You won't have her!**"

It's a roar, ferocious and mad.

"I defeated death, for her!"

The man's face rises defiantly in the dark, an azurine flash in his blazing eyes.

"I will defeat_**you**_!"

The man's arms go up toward a sky which isn't there.

"I call you, abject abomination.

His hands clenched in fists."

"Show yourself."

His knuckles get livid.

"Fight."

The tendons of his neck tauten like cords in his extreme, folly holler.

And under the high vaults of the Hall of the Mountain King, it echoes the ultimate and insensate defiance.

"**I** **challenge**** you****!**"

* * *

_**End of Chapter Four**_

**Oh damn! But Trip... DOES HE BE SURE OF WHAT HE IS DOING?**

_**TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Five**

_**(The fifth after the Prologue - The sixth counting the Prologue)**_

**

* * *

**

Author's Notes

_I know, I know!__The previous chapter of this story was published on February and now we are on December. I am really an unforgivable idler! But please, you who were so gentle to enjoy this story, try to forgive me. I swear that I will be more hardworking from now on!_

_Please, be still willing to read this story. I think that, all in all, it may have some worth. And - Oh my! What kind of a chutzpah that's me! - make, please, the effort to cast a glance at the previous chapters so as to have an idea of what is happening here._

_Mamma mia, mamma mia! Fortunately, there is __**Linda**__, who once again wanted to help me. Thank goodness there is she!_

_Anyway, here are some reminders, that maybe can be helping._

_1)__Trip and T'Pol are really in a big trouble, especially T'Pol, I think, with that infernal Thing who (Mh... or which?) was about to... Well! Maybe it's better if I don't say what the hell that damn Thing was about to do!_

_2)__Hoshi and Malcolm are on the Bannerdas' planet. Why? Oh well, the Bannerdas' boss has spoken of a book. Just so! A book!_

_3)__And Enterprise, with the Captain and all the crew, was about to get destroyed, falling headlong against the Mountain, without energy and without hope._

_In this chapter, Enterprise's fate won't be yet revealed; here we will try to understand what will happen to Trip and T'Pol by means of the Bannerda's explanations. Malcolm (it is him the first one who speaks) wants to know!_

**

* * *

**

**

* * *

**

In the Hall of the Mountain King

**Chapter Five**

* * *

(*_To the devil, bloody hell!_*)

I violently rouse myself from my dumb astonishment. Violently; because now I am angry.

I don't give a damn if Methuselah would pale from shame facing this man, or if the age of Mesopotamian ziggurats is only an imperceptible chirrup in time likened to the antiquity of the youngest of youngest objects in this room. We are here for a job. We must rescue our friends and His Excellency wanted us here because he thought that we might better be of help for our two Commanders, rather than being with our colleagues darting to their aid at this moment. Well then enough with these damn riddles; I don't want conundrums, I want explanations, damn bloody hell of a bloody hell! I want Trip and T'Pol back! Unscathed. That's what I want, for Pete's sake! I don't want to waste our time chasing after abstruse enigmas.

I disentangle myself from Hoshi's grasp and take some steps towards to the old Bannerda, quickly and forcefully, looking at him with a fierce scowl. I am fed up; old or not old, wise or not wise, great or not great, it's time that this man tells us why we are here and what we have to do to save our friends.

I know my words come out very harsh and perhaps I will likely regret doing that, but I am really beyond keeping my splendid British self-control; my stark poise is a little too much put to hard a test, now; my patience has evaporated.

And… does this very wise Bannerda know how dangerous it can be to freak out an English Bomber?

* * *

The man's voice resounds in the dead and closed air. It resonates under the high vaults, wrapped in the dark, concealed to the sight; slips into every burrow crossing the mountain, into the bowels of the earth themselves; bounces against the rock walls, rolling along their steep and craggy reliefs; spread puissant far and wide, through the narrow and obscure corridors.

The crazy scream of defiance dies away, little by little, until only its echo remains, vanishing in the darkness.

And then there is only silence.

The man is standing, gasping, with his chin raised, with his arms turned aloft, towards the vault that he can't see. Waiting. Wrath and fear, fury and despair, rending his chest.

The moments pass. Nothing happens.

And his mind has become deaf and blind; he is no longer capable of sensing either the abhorrent presence or his lost love.

_Lost..._

_No. NO!_

_**NO!**_

The beat of his heart seems to become slower, feebler.

It seems to die; like his insensate hope. Like his soul is dissolving into the frost and into the black hopelessness.

And then... abruptly... all of a sudden... there is no longer anything.

Neither rock walls nor terrain, neither ceiling nor ground. Neither darkness. Neither light.

There is a void, without end and colourless, neither white nor black nor gray nor green nor blue nor red nor aught; indefinable. And heavy. And immovable. Empty.

And in the middle of the void nought, there is him, a minuscule point in the endless hollowness.

* * *

"Decidedly interesting, Your Excellency. Now, if you allow, could you explain what all this has to do with...?"

"The false friends!"

I nearly startle at the shrill shout of my Hoshi.

Damn women! Always incapable of following nothing else but their own thoughts. Suddenly I feel very respectful of the enormous forbearance that Trip had and has to have with his T'Pol, considering that Hoshi's behaviour is a pale shadow of the stroppy conduct of T'Pol, although T'Pol is – only apparently, that's for sure, if what Trip mischievously suggested me in front of a bottle of Scotch - the Queen of Freeze, whereas Hoshi is like the hot wind of the Desert. These two women are so distant from each other. Mh... or maybe - the thought of how many times T'Pol was able to wrong-foot Trip comes to my mind – maybe not too much?

I remain mouth-agape with my words dying in my throat.

I start to turn toward my unpredictable Ensign when the Bannerda stops me in his turn.

"Very well, Ensign Sato. It is evident that you are not only a great translator, but also a very clever person."

"But that's impossible, Your Excellency."

"Do you have a more logical explanation?"

"But the probability that such an unbelievable circumstance can occur..."

"Give up, Ensign. Not even your Vulcan First Officer would be capable of calculating it."

"Excellency..."

"Or maybe it is not the case."

"Eh? Excellency! Are you saying that..."

"And that's the reason you two are here."

"What… what do you mean, Excellency?"

"I mean..."

"**What bloody hell do you mean, both of you?**"

* * *

His arms come down slowly to his sides.

His breath becomes bated, as his mind.

He sinks his eyes in the nil which surrounds him, and slowly turns all around him.

He seeks.

He doesn't feel either marvel or fear; now, nothing is minimally able to catch him. Nothing, but his purpose.

Magic? Wonders? Unreality? Impossibility? Who cares for all that?

T'Pol counts! T'Pol! Only T'Pol! ONLY T'POL!

And she has to come back! Unharmed! Safe and sound! In his arms!

At any cost!

So, there is only one thought inside him: what does all this mean? What? Does it mean that his challenge... - He hearkens and scrutinizes attentively all around - …that his challenge has been taken?

* * *

Hoshi's eyes met mine, with puzzlement painted into them, while the echo of my voice gets lost around us.

I look alternately at her and at the Bannerda, who is silently staring at me.

I take a deep breath and speak loud and clear, not at all ashamed of the harsh way I interrupted this hermetic exchange between them.

My voice resounds absolutely calm; it is phlegmatic and cold just as one of a true English Officer. "Excuse me, but I would like me to be made aware of what there is underground."

I pause, then I add sarcastically "I know I am not very quick-witted, I am only a poor Security Officer; but maybe, who knows, if you two would be so kind as to acquaint me with what you are arguing about, I might be of some help."

* * *

A thrill. Or maybe not. It is impossible defining it, but something is happening.

A thrill, yes, a thrill.

All around.

* * *

Suddenly I understand; Malcolm is right. Struck by the enormity of what came to my mind, I completely forgot that he was here and that we have to act and not to get lost in futile discussions,

And then he is right twice: he is intelligent and foxy, as well as a man of action. Even in the situation we are, I can't help but smile to myself: isn't this, among other things, the reason which made me fall in love with him?

I admire the straight-faced way my Malcolm is showing himself, relishing the not at all fearful tone he expressed even in His Excellency's presence, the decidedly British taste of his behaviour.

He is my man, the man just for me, exactly... I lower my eyes in sadness - ... exactly as Trip is the man just for T'Pol, and... - I feel ashamed that in my bewilderment I have almost forgotten our task - ... and we are here to make sure that she, T'Pol, can come back with us, safe in the arms of her man. We are not here to waste our time.

Yes, my Malcolm is damnedly right.

I cast a sidelong glance at His Excellency, apprehensive that he can have been hurt by the conduct of my Mal, but I swear that his eyes seem to smile and with an unnoticeable nod of his head he encourages me to talk.

I try to put in order my thoughts; then I speak, staring at Malcolm's face, who meanwhile is intently gazing at mine.

"Malcolm, language is not a dead thing; it changes and evolves. Even in a very short lapse of time, it inevitably becomes different from what it previously was, and that is true even if some races are devoid of frequent contact with other species, even if they tend to isolate themselves."

A flash of understanding crosses my Mal's eyes.

"As the Bannerdas."

"Yes, Malcolm. So..."

"So, it is impossible that in that very ancient archive, there was something expressed in their language of today."

Pride inflates my chest. Which sort of moron might ever say that my Malcolm is nothing more than as simple man-at-arms?

I step forward and softly place my hand on his arm.

"Just so, Mal. That phrase, those words we believed were the coordinates of the world where T'Pol was kidnapped and where Trip has disappeared to her rescue...

Malcolm excitedly interrupts me. His visage becomes visibly tense. "They are words coming from a very distant age; they cannot mean what we thought that they meant. Is it so, Hoshi?"

"Is it, Mal."

"But..." - My love's voice betrays his puzzlement. – "... but they mean it! They display the road to that world!"

I let go Mal's arm and I turn toward His Excellency, who is perfectly motionless, all engrossed in following our words. Then I turn around again to look at my Mal. "Malcolm, remember what His Excellency said, about the False Friends."

Malcolm blinks, then speaks in a low voice. "Are you saying that the meaning was different and that it was a mere case that those words were indicating the road? Because they are False Friends and they mean different things in Bannerdas' today's language and in their ancient parlance?"

His Excellency's low-pitched voice resounds in the air, drawing our attention.

"All that you say, Lieutenant, matches the truth, except that..."

This time it's me who speaks, interrupting what the old Bannerda is going to say. "Except that it cannot be a mere case."

His Excellency gazes gravely at us. He lowers his head for a brief instant, then he brusquely lifts it. His words ring loud and determined.

"Ensign, Lieutenant. It's time that I explain why you two are here."

* * *

Something, like a sort of contraction in the nil's weave, perfectly perceptible. It comes from a well defined point.

His eyes focus on it.

* * *

His Excellency beckons to the writing still shining over the table. "The young scientist who retrieved this, understood that it was impossible that there was, in that ancient data-base, something written in the language we speak with today. She didn't think to find an explanation about the fact that it seemed written in our current language, but comprehended that that could be very important. She immediately transmitted this item of information to us and our linguists set to work right away. We knew when that outstation had been built, even if we have lost the science we had at that time, as you can understand from what I said. So we supposed it was a reasonable approach that we tried to see if that writing, read and interpreted as it was written in the language that was spoken at that time, could have taken us to some outcome."

The old Bannerda makes a brief pause to let us absorb his words. Then he resumes his talk. "As you may understand, it wasn't easy. Immemorial ages have passed since that time and the language, or, rather, the languages dating back six hundred thousand standard-Earth years ago are now dead, completely dead. But our time is longer and proceeds slower than yours, both in regard to our lifespan and our history, and the memory of our history. Yes, our memory is long, maybe not as long as the existence of our race, but enough to allow us to translate the writing to give it the meaning it really had."

I can't help but ask, again, squeezing Mal's arm, "And it was...?"

His Excellency looks fixedly at us, then begins to speak, in an uncertain voice. "Naco do ber Cata Tanach."

I turn my head and watch Mal. He is questioning me without speaking.

I don't know why my voice is quivering, while I translate to him what the Bannerda pronounced in his own language.

"Under the Ancient Monarch's throne."

And at this point, my phlegmatic British love explodes.

* * *

Something is appearing.

* * *

"Do we want to stop speaking by means of enigmas?"

I try to calm down Mal, but he seems to be really pissed off. I never saw him like this.

"I am really fed up, now, Your Excellency."

"Mal..."

"Hoshi, do not try to quiet me. Trip and T'Pol are in need, we not even know if they are alive, maybe they are suffering the pains of hell, and we are groping in the dark."

"Mal, please…"

"Stop it, Hoshi! And stop it, you. Your... Great Excellency. Enough riddles and mysteries. You cannot finish any explanation with a new conundrum. Do you want to tell us how things are and why the bloody hell we are here and what we should do? Once and for all?"

I gasp. What will the Bannerda do, now? But... yes... my Mal is right. What... what _the bloody hell _are we awaiting for?

I squeeze my man's hand, both to appease him and to make him aware that I share his mood and at the same time I look at His Excellency, searching for his expression, to know how he is responding to Mal's harsh tone. But he doesn't seems to be angry, on the contrary he seems compunctious, I would say... apologetically. He leans backward against the table, looking tired and worried. Then he speaks, almost... almost humbly.

"I apologize, Lieutenant. You…" - His Excellency smiles a little sadly. –"… you _are the bloody hell_ right. We must act in great haste, sure, but..." - Another sad smile. – "... but you must understand that we have not the same time perception you have, and then it's needed that you know all, in order to understand how things are and to help your friends." - His Excellency smiles, sadly, one more time. – "And us. And, most likely... all the living species."

I breathe harshly, grasping spasmodically Mal's hand. He ruggedly addresses the Bannerda.

"The King. He exists, doesn't he?"

"It seems, Lieutenant."

"That book. It speaks of him, right?"

"It does, Lieutenant."

"And by means of that writing, translated in its real language, you found it under... "

"...Under the Ancient Monarch's throne."

"Which means?"

I listen to what has practically become a true interrogation, admiring my man and his ability in his job. The tough and determined action man, who conquered me, is back and is in full light. I can't help but think of T'Pol and of what she revealed to me about her and Trip, opening her soul to me with a confidence that honoured me; of how much she had found unpleasant - that had been her definition - her man at the beginning, just the opposite of her, an opposite of whom she now isn't able to get along without, all that she had found unpleasant in him having become reasons of her love for him, exactly as it happened to Trip, in regard to her. Just like what happened to Malcolm and to me. Maybe it's really true that opposites attract, and, at this moment, my heart bounces with proud love for the one I once felt as my opposite, what I disliked in him now having turned into cause for attraction. He wants to know and to stop losing time. And he doesn't let go of the bone. Malcolm is clamant now, pressing; he took the initiative and went into the lead.

The Bannerda seems to have understood that Malcolm wants answers. He replies with precision, rapidly, without getting lost in futile baloneys or useless circumlocutions. Without further riddles.

"We were ruled by Monarchs, once. They stood sitting on a throne that is said to be built for the Monarch who guided us before we closed ourselves in our dominion. A Monarch who comes from the depths of yore and who is only known by this appellative, The Ancient Monarch. A legend, obviously."

"Yeah, obviously. Like the King."

"Exactly, Lieutenant. Like the King."

I am unable not to speak." Malcolm, I remember the Captain saying that Commander T'Pol once told him, referring to the Triannons, that perhaps their mythology had a basis in fact."

Malcolm nods and speaks in his turn. "Perhaps all mythology has a basis in fact, Hoshi." Then he addresses again His Excellency in a unceremonious tone. "Isn't that true, Your Excellency?"

* * *

It is like a sort of point made of nothing, that seems to pulsate, as trying to acquire consistence and reality in that inconsistent expanse of unreality. It seems to be getting bigger, its contours take shape. An image. It is indistinct, but little by little it gains sharpness and clearness.

Something. No, someone.

It is as big as it has to be, now, just in the front and not distant, even if that amorphous void doesn't allow the senses to confidently judge.

Suddenly the vision changes, it acquires a true solidity, it no longer looks like an image, it's really a person, in the flesh. And it gets perfectly clear.

It is...

"**T'POL!**"

* * *

"Our mythology, Lieutenant, is a mixture of reality and of ancient myths, that are nothing other than the distortion of the many realities concealed in the depth of our lack of knowledge, exactly like all people, only extremely complicated by the length of history and time that are behind our shoulders."

His Excellency doesn't seem to want to change his new frank and open behaviour. He goes on unveiling things, as Malcolm's determined conduct has made clear that it's needed.

"The throne is a real and precious manufact, that really comes from a very old past, as our tests have demonstrated with conclusive evidence. It was the command armchair of the Monarchs who ruled us before we acquired our present political setting, where they were sitting when they had to or wanted to show the puissance of their majesty; the symbol itself of their power, even more emblematic in reason for its being the tangible sign of a power which sinks into the mists of time immemorial. As for the Ancient Monarch, he is a legendary figure, who is remembered as the Monarch who guided our people in its last fight against the..."

I can't help but do it. I exclaim the name. "Against The King!"

His Excellency brings again his eyes upon me. "It is one of the most fascinating legends of our people, Ensign. The Ancient Monarch managed to win the King, the true embodiment of evil, but the King's power was too great for him to be destroyed. He was plunged into an endless sleep, like death, but that was not a real death."

"The facts, Excellency! The facts, please!"

His Excellency looks at Malcolm with strange eyes, after his latest demonstration of impatience. "You want the facts, Lieutenant?" Then. Almost with rage, he says loudly, "What do you think of these facts?"

His voice rises, cavernous.

"_They say HE is sleeping a sleep, which is vigil.  
They say HE is watching, and hearing, and listening._

_They say He's observing,  
That no thing,  
No creature  
Can elude him._

_They say HE is sitting,  
Inert and remote,  
Twisted in chains,  
On his ice throne,  
In the deepest frost,  
In the blackest dark,  
In the most leaden hush,  
Yonder in the depths._

_Alone.  
Outlying.  
Stirless.  
Silent._

_They say HE is thinking,  
The Black Sire  
Who no longer has heart,  
About his past,  
Which won't ever return._

_The Obscure, Sinister, Grim Lord.  
The Shadows' Monarch._

_The Gloomy, Tenebrous, Doleful,  
Miserable Death's Sir._

_Yonder.  
In the depths.  
In the dark.  
In the frost.  
Where there're no moves.  
Where there're no sounds.  
Where all is dead._

_They say HE is waiting.  
Not dead, not alive.  
With inhuman patience._

_He is waiting._

_For his moment to arrive."_

Why do I shudder to hear this, that evidently sounds as a silly piece of literature, like lots of others, that all peoples have? And why did Malcolm no longer show any sign of impatience?

* * *

She is naked and hanging by the wrists, pulled up over his head and tied together with a chain that extends up, fixed to something that is not seen. Also her ankles are enchained with each other, as the wrists, and are tied down to an invisible anchorage.

Stretched between these two painful means of restraint, she is hanging like a rag doll, limp, her head bent forward, between her arms forced upward, her chin on her chest. She breathes with effort.

The man is motionless, unable to believe what he sees.

His horror exceeds his wrath. At the first heartbreaking recall of agonizing awareness, another follows, lowly sighed in a stunned incredulity.

"T'Pol."

There is an unendurable pain, inside him, made of her own pain, amplified by a feeling of impotent and miserable humiliation, the same that she feels and consequently he too. It is a pain, an unbearable anguish, physical and mental, which abysmally increases by the love he has for her.

A pain that can't be told, nor restrained, nor bridled.

A pain made with a love which nobody and nothing can keep inside of any boundary.

There can't be any force to prevent this heartbroken love from reaching the essence of the object of such an indomitable feeling, from penetrating the suffering and doleful soul of the woman writhing in the agony of the aching torture to which her body and her mind are subjected.

It delicately touches her mind, caresses her soul; awakes her. Makes her aware that he - HE - is there.

**With her!**

She lifts her heavy head with the greatest of efforts; she tries to see.

And through the veil of tears and pain, she sees.

_It's him. It's real. It's true._

She struggles, in her impotence. She desperately endeavours to speak, weakly wriggling in the chains that clamp her, against the alien satanic presence that imprisons her mind.

His name, finally, erupts out from her bloodless lips.

"Trip."

It is a feeble sigh. But it rings as a scream.

It's a hope, an exacting claim, a heart-rending request, a despairing cry for help.

_Save me, Trip. Free me_. - This, her sigh means. - _Take me away with you. - _This. And... -_**Take me away from HIM! TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME! **_

The man can hear the voiceless desperate yell of her harrowed soul.

_**CHASE HIM AWAY FROM MY MIND!**_

* * *

His Excellency crosses his arms on his chest and looks at us with what sounds like an air of excuses and contemporaneously of impatient need.

"Lieutenant, I apologize if I have let myself be pulled into what may seem an unnecessary and silly literary citation, and just now, just in the urgency of the present situation. However, in these rhymes, although it may seem incredible, there is the heart of everything. This is a well-known piece of one of our greatest epics, written by many hands during the ages, which tells of the legendary cycle of the fights that the Ancient Monarch and the Monarchs who preceded him fought against The King since the beginning of time. It can be taken as cultural baggage of our race, to such an extent that children recite parts of it in every apt occasion. This one that I just told you is the last passage of this epic, its finale, and It is so part of us that it is used by grandparents as a sort of nursery rhyme which they are in the habit of telling our children when they want to sweetly warn them they must stop acting badly. I don't know how I can explain to you, something like_… Cease to act so, little child, if you do not want the Black Sire to wake up and grab you._"

"The bogeyman."

His Excellency watches me with puzzled eyes. "The bogeyman?"

"An unsettling and dark figure, Your Excellency. – I swallow ill at ease. – "But a nonexistent figure. A bugbear for children. We say: _Be quiet, if you do not want the bogeyman to come._"

"Yes, just so. An unsettling and dark figure, but absolutely nonexistent." Malcolm is very next to me, now, while he speaks. I am glad he is so close, because.. I don't like what his words mean. "Unlike this King, it seems, Hoshi." Yes, oh yes. I am very glad my Mal is so close to me.

The Bannerdas nods at my Malcolm's words. "Actually, Lieutenant, we have to think you are right, even if it is hard to believe that such an entity may be real, above all in relation with all that implies."

The old Bannerda takes a short pause, as if he were collecting his thoughts; then he goes on.

"As with all people, as with the Vulcans themselves, even with all their logic," - I don't think I am deceiving myself: there is a hint of teasing half smile, shining in the eyes of His Excellency, while he says that – "we too have our legends and our popular tales. The most popular and most loved cycle of legends is the one which turns around the figure of The King and of the Ancient Monarch, or, rather, of the Great Monarchs, of whom the Ancient Monarch would have been the last epigone. He was, in reality, the last depository of all the knowledge of yore, and of all that this knowledge implies." - His Excellency's eyes show themselves thoughtful. – "To tell the truth, it appears very meaningful, in the light of the recent events and of their significance, the attachment we have for these myths, dating from the dawn of time and lacking of any scientific basis, in relation to the extremely old species that we are and to our advanced science. This cycle, of which that Epic is the literal and poetic sum, narrates of a war begun very antiquely, in night of times, when the Universe was nothing more than a handful of galaxies born from the energy explosion that had started it all, by an unknown hand."

His Excellency takes some steps up to the window, stopping in front of it, and looks out, through it, crossing his arms behind his back. His profile enlightened by the terse light that comes from outside, he keeps on with his narration.

"The King was a wicked entity, the leader - the dominator - of a people that had been vomited from the abysses of evil. His power was immense, and he wanted to conquer us and the whole universe. And we - the Great Monarchs - were the bulwark against his dreams of puissance."

The old Bannerda turns slowly, towards us.

"The Ancient Monarch, the greatest of our antique Lords, succeeded where his predecessors had failed. As I said, he managed to defeat The King."

The eyes of His Excellency shine with a mysterious light.

"By means of something The King could not even think might exist."

The light in the eyes of the Bannerda sparkles meaningfully. Triumphantly, I would be tempted to say.

"The love of a woman."

* * *

The love of a woman.

The love of a woman can do everything.

_**Everything!**_

Even to push the bleeding and torn body of what is now the faint shadow of a man to fling as a fury into a hopeless fight for her.

There is only one thought, only one need, only one categorical imperative: _**he must free her!**_

In that endless void without form, the little, ridiculous squit throws himself forward, toward the only reason of his life, toward the doleful woman, tortured, enchained to the nil.

_**He will free her! Yes, oh yes! He will free her! He will cut her chains with his bare hands, will break them with his teeth!**_

He is almost on her, can almost touch her. Some steps yet, only one last effort in his mad running through the nothing.

A dazzling light suddenly spreads through the void, ghastly. It enlightens everything.

_It can't be endured._

_**But it must be!**_

A deafening noise cuts the void, deep and still strident. A horrendous cacophony.

_It can't be endured._

_**But it must be!**_

Blinded and deafened, the man doesn't cede. He cannot! He mustn't!

_**He can endure, he must endure all that!**_

Some steps yet.

Another one, the last.

He is there, at her feet, he raises his arms.

There we are! _There we are!_ _**There we are!**_

And like a dummy without forces, he suddenly feels grabbed, lifted, launched far away.

He falls down on a soil that doesn't exist; he rolls all along that soil, like a cordless puppet; finally he manages to stop his painful rolling, and he is able to turn his eyes toward her, from the invisible ground where he lies.

He squints, trying to see in the dazzling light, which, though, begins to trail off, as the noise. A suspended silence takes the place of the previous uproar.

The man stands up laboriously, staring at the hanging woman in the dim light that there is now, at the silent plea in her eyes, a plea which lacerates his soul.

From his parched lips it escapes a feeble sigh, full of all the pain, all the frustration, all the despair he feels.

"T'Pol…"

He raises his flayed hands toward her, as in a hopeless pray.

His searing eyes become misty with tears.

And suddenly in his eyes two other eyes are mirrored.

There, aloft, before his love. Two enormous eyes, without colour, without cilia, without pupils, sparkling with unworldly inhumanity.

They watch him, stare at him, oppress him.

Seconds pass, while the eyes look each others; the alien eyes that observe the human creature who was able to shake his mind; and the human eyes that observe the monstrous entity who has in his clutches the heart of his heart.

Then, words without sounds, sounds without words, ring out ear-splitting in the man's mind.

The woman, on her invisible rood of torture, starts to jolt wildly, as under a pain without name.

The sound replenishes everything; it shreds the fibers of her being and permeates the brain of her man.

Then everything stops.

The woman falls exhausted and panting on herself, on her chains, while the man absorbs the meaning of the speechless and nevertheless eloquent sound, now fading away from his mind. Its echo resonates inside his brain, while he understands in a stunned silence that his desperate battle hasn't been futile.

The alien eyes seem to mockingly watch him, while total comprehension makes its road inside him as inside his woman.

Behind the gigantic eyes without body, the tearful eyes of the enchained woman dive with an inexpressible hope into the equally tearful eyes of her man; two eyes, though, now again determined, flaming with an indefectible strength.

The man pulls his arms to his sides and breathes deeply and vigorously.

Something new is born inside him, a mighty awareness, that gives him a new confidence, even in the hallucinatory nightmare world in which they are. Those eyes without soul can even sardonically look at him from behind the immense power of the one to whom they belong, but he has been able to bring the possessor of those eyes just where he wanted. Now he knows that he can win, that he can reach victory in his desperate fight, because as he has been able to get what he wanted, so he will be able to get his aim.

The meaning of the unsaid words that have resounded in his mind is perfectly clear.

**The challenge is accepted.**

* * *

END OF CHAPTER FIVE

_Oh well, well! _

_At the end of the previous chapter, Trip threw his crazy challenge, and now we know the challenge has been accepted._

_And now? What bloody hell will happen, Malcolm would say?_

_**TBC**_


	7. Chapter 7

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter ****Six**

_**(The **__**sixth after the Prologue - The seventh counting the Prologue)**_

**

* * *

**

Author's Notes

_Oh well! This time, it is not too much the time that passed since the last chapter has been published. Maybe - thank God - those who were kind enough to read this story, have not forgotten what happened and are still interested to know what's going to happen._

_But I warn everyone: plenty of water must pass under the bridges before it reaches the sea._

_My hope is that my wonderful Beta - Linda - doesn't get tired of seeing this water flow._

**

* * *

**

In the Hall of the Mountain King

**Chapter Six**

* * *

It's strange. We are here, in need to be finally aware of what we have to do, and, even in the urgency of the situation, we can't help but greedily listen to what His Excellency is telling us. We, sure; and greedily, because even Mal, with all the impatience he justifiably has, is listening to His Excellency's words with the greatest attention. And I don't think this is only because what the Bannerda tells is the premise for our line of action. Actually, there is in this narration a tragic attractiveness that powerfully grabs our attention.

An evil and invincible entity… defeated by the love of a woman. He is sleeping a sleep of death, but he is waiting. Waiting… for what? No, not for what but for whom. For… a woman? As a woman, for what we can understand, has been the cause of his perdition, so may a woman be the cause of his resurrection?

But this is worst than a feuilleton, no, worst than a pot-boiler. Yeah, sure. But... but that book... that book about which we know yet nothing... it is true, and if it is true, if really it means what its existence per se means... in this case... as His Excellency is saying, and... and as even my pragmatic Mal seems to believe... so... in this case... this entity, this King was... _**is **_real, just as real as the woman who lost him.

So, maybe a woman may really reawaken him. Right? Right.

And... oh my!... All began with T'Pol! A woman! A woman! The... the woman the King was waiting for?

I shake off my cerebrations. His Excellency's voice calls me again to the world.

"Our people were strong and our Monarchs powerful. But the King was more. The forces of evil can be crushed, but they always resurrect, feeding themselves off the evil which is in us; and every time they seem defeated, they reappear, stronger than before, because their ranks get swollen by new recruits, attracted by the false light of the blandishments of darkness. And so had happened with The King. Three times he had been driven back into the abyss from which he had been spewed up, and he has always risen, each time stronger, each time more powerful, each time smarter, each time more treacherous. Each time with greater forces. And at last, the endless war seemed to be at its end, after all the time it had been fraught with combat; but it was not a good end for us."

We listen to His Excellency's words in bated silence. Regardless of anything, his narration is fascinating; there is such a force, in it, such a vehemence. It is as if the Bannerda were talking with the strength of his heart.

It's Mal who interrupts him, but without punity. He gives body to my thoughts.

"But there was a woman, right, Your Excellency?"

His Excellency nods. "Yes, there was. A woman of our race, a young and splendid woman, who had fallen prey of the infernal legions of the King, during their pitiless forays. She was fated to be a slave, in a harem of one of his disgusting and hellish henchmen, damned to serve this one in his seraglio, to do with him and for him the only things that the abominable horde of The King thought that women can do, the only things for which the women would be born. Those godless people, both those belonging to the breed of the King and those recruited from other races and fallen in the darkness of evil, didn't wanted weak females nor sick children nor disabled people or those inapt for combat. They had to be fierce and ruthless masters, without the palest shadow of weakness or mercy; only that. So those who were judged not able to be or to do what this hotchpotch of black-hearted beasts has thought it was proper for them, were suppressed; and the females when they were newly born. They used our women and the women of any other race in order to be perpetuated, killing them after they had served the pleasure and the needs of their abject masters."

That's a legend. _A legend. A legend_. It cannot be true. It cannot. No. _Mal, say something, talk!_ But my Mal doesn't speak. He holds tightly my hand; he knows that I need this. It's... it's hard to bear the Bannerda's story. I know that he is simply telling tales which, distorted by the people's fantasy, narrate facts, events and persons that are merely the pale reflection of the reality that is behind them; but, more or less, this reality exists - the book, and what happened, testify to that – and it is a dark reality. And the way His Excellency is telling it makes it so… so real!

"This would have been the destiny of that woman, of Lil, the daughter of the greatest prince serving under the Ancient Monarch. This she was thinking, trembling, in that dark and large hall, jam-packed with vociferous males, mocking all the females, anxiously waiting their fate, like her, after their husbands, parents, children had been slain by those heartless demons in shape of living beings in the service of the one who to all intents and purposes should have been called the demons' Sire. Alone, with death in her heart, under the greedy eyes of her conquerors, she was waiting, in chains, to see who would have taken possession of her."

His Excellency seems enthralled by his narration itself, as well as us. He seems unable to speak differently, more normally. And we are unable not to be prey of his recounting.

"Just then, the doors of the hall were opened. Surrounded by guards armed at all points, a tall man entered the room. The miserable captive felt her blood freeze in her veins; she had never seen him, but she recognized who he was. In the sudden silence that had descended in the hall, he advanced, grim-faced and puissant, walking scornful between his subjects, without deigning to pay the least attention to anything and anyone. The crowd opened at his passage; he reached the empty throne towering in the middle of the high wall at the bottom of the vast lounge and sat on it, on what belonged to him. While all looks were aimed at him, he raised his eyes, looking disdainfully at the throng of his acolytes and almost absent-mindedly noticing the multitude of young women in abject fear, now holding their breath, aware of being in front of the living source of the nightmare of their lives. His eyes alighted upon the maiden."

I precede His Excellency's conclusion.

"Lil had found her possessor."

* * *

As a wind, strong and wild, words that are thoughts run in Trip's mind. They have neither language nor sound and still they speak.

Behind the glacial eyes without sight, T'Pol is again quivering in pain. Any thought, any soundless word rumbling inside her, are stabs into her brain and her body. Her heartless ruthless dominator doesn't loosen his grip on her essence and he knows that her man sees and feels her suffering.

And the bodiless dark mind enjoys this.

Trip feels any stab as a stab inflicted on himself, even more harrowing because they are the signs of T'Pol's pain.

But he must hold on. He can't fall prey to this trap. As much as he feels like dying in seeing and in feeling the atrocious tortures which are shattering T'Pol's body as well as her mind, he must stay stony.

Reason is back in his brain; he has understood. God knows by what kind of miracle, he managed to come here, to provoke the piqued vanity of the nameless and monstrous entity.

Unexpectedly his crazy challenge, born in the insanity of his desperation, has opened a breach, undreamt-of and unthought-of, that mustn't be wasted.

He doesn't know if he has unconsciously looked for this outcome, because it is evident that he can't fight, mentally or physically, against this monstrous being; but the challenges can be of various kind, and the bitchy souls take a malignant pleasure in testing those who they know are without hope against their strength.

Testing, yes. The challenge was accepted and will be a test. An ordeal, maybe more than one. That's an old story, occurring so many times in the past, and that will happen yet again, many times in the future. What a delicious delight seeing the poor and hopeless inferior creatures that dared defy those who have power of life and death struggling vainly in the mortal ordeals that can't have any other ending than the ludicrous and laughable death of the miserable worms that ventured to issue the challenge. Crushing them without enjoying their futile floundering would be too simple; better, much better relishing their hopeless fight, observing from far and without dirtying the hands, the harrowing sufferings they have to endure until the inevitable ending. And then, there is some sort of honourable nobility in this, although plainly double-faced and mealy-mouthed: after all, a chance is offered, and it is not the fault of the _genteel sirs_ if the street that the foolish defiers have taken is fatally one-way.

The obscure and still understandable words that are silently resounding, unsubstantial, through Trip's mind as well as in that of T'Pol are telling just that. Ordeals, difficult and hard; that's what Trip has to endure and to get over to have T'Pol again in his arms. Evidently there has to be something universal in the way of thinking and in the attitudes of those who think to be the masters of everything, regardless of whom or what they are. Evil always repeats itself, it has no fantasy, regardless of who is the villain. Trip knows this; he already met evil, and now his unconscious - almost unthought - plan has achieved its unplanned aim.

What will these ordeals be? How many? Will he be able to face them and, above all, to get over them? And in this case, what might it be, the value of the words of such an abominable and alien and powerful entity?

Questions without answer, that mustn't even be postulated.

There is only one matter which now counts: the narrowest of the interstices has been opened; it is needed to throw himself inside headlong and enlarging it, and running along the road hidden within until its end. And hoping. Only that. Nothing other than that. Nothing more.

Fighting and hoping.

With the blind strength of despair.

_Ignore her pain, man. Ignore it. _

_**Don't let her pain cloud your reason!**_

_Pay no attention to her imploring eyes. Not to fall in this trap. This__… this __**Thing**__ wants this, wants to put you to the test; if you cede, you will be destroyed, and T'Pol... and T'Pol..._

_Hold on! Hang on! Listen to what you have to do!_

He clenches his fists, sticks his broken fingernails in his fleshes.

_**Don't let, don't let, don't let!**_

His harsh voice resounds loud in the unshaped void.

"I am listening. Tell me."

* * *

"Oh... hum... well... very grabbing, Your Excellency. Really. Honestly I am persuaded that the Greek tragedians of our past would be nothing more than simple dabblers in comparison with your passionate and vivid way of telling." - I must speak in this way, before I become totally prey to this damned Bannerda and of his damned way of recounting his more or less true story about what the meaning is of that damned book. But I am stammering also, bloody hell! I hate to be stammering, like a stuttering child! Damn Bannerda! Damn! – "But now, what do you think to tell us just what we need in order to do the job we are here for without reciting to us, line by line and word by word, from most to least your _marvellous_ epic in its whole extent?"

Hoshi watches me as if she were reawakening from a dream. And, if I have to be honest, that's what's happening also to me. And the Bannerda seems to do the same.

He shakes his head. And - can you believe? - he stammers, just like me. "Oh...ah... sure. Sure Lieutenant. So, where... where were we?"

I snort, maliciously. "At the reason why we are here."

The Bannerda nods. He speaks quickly, beckoning at the book lying on the table. "You are here because we must retrieve the lacking pages of the book and interpret what is written on them."

I don't say a word to my Hoshi. The Bannerda goes on, looking intently at Hoshi. "It's true that Lil had found her possessor, Ensign, but not only that. Love is a strange thing. Lil fell in love with The King. The fascination of evil? Who knows, but she became the woman of The King, sure. And the matter is just here, because when I say _the woman of The King_, I mean _the woman_ not the _sex slave_. The impossible had happened; in fact, someway, The King wasn't insensitive. He wasn't able to know what love was, but Lil gave to him something he wasn't able not to relish, and that wasn't devoid of effect."

The poignancy of His Excellency's look heightens. "The pressure of his armies got slack, like they were losing the primary source of their strength. Was this because of Lil? May be possible to imagine that the fount of every evil might have been diverted in some way from unrelentingly pursuing his aim - the purpose that had been his obsession through his whole existence and that now he was so close to achieving - for the sweetness of one woman's caresses? The Ancient Monarch, whose eyes and whose ears were able to see and to hear very far, wanted to think it was possible, and decided to play the last card. It was the latest opportunity, and he didn't want to lose it. With the greatest of efforts, the most powerful of armies that had ever been seen has been made ready, collecting the forces coming from every part of space, taking advantage from the unhoped-for slackening of the hammering of the King's legions. Proud spaceships, crested with the armorial bearings of our Empire, sailed off for what was the ultimate mission, a mission from which could come only victory; or the final destruction. They would have brought the fight in the core itself of the King's dominion."

Images of great combat starships, armed with unimaginable weapons and sailing the dark gulfs of the seas of space, start to unfold in my mind; of planets, of lands, antique and unknown, trembling under the blows of appalling and destructive energies. And of big armies, of men, lost in the remoteness and in the darkness of a past immensely distant, on the march to bring death among the flares of dreadful fires. To bring death; and to win. Or to cause the end of everything, if they had lost their ultimate desperate fight. Their shouts, the clash of their bodies against the enemies, the blood, the mortal wounds, the pain, the smell of the sweat of fatigue and of fear... By the Bannerda's words all this comes to us, reliving again from a dead past. Or maybe from a past still well alive.

"The universe caught fire, burst into flame. The superior forces of The King were caught by surprise attack, but the dark spaceships of the Empire of Darkness were too many, and the silver starships of the Ancient Monarch met their destruction for the most part. Nevertheless, some of them managed to escape the powerful reaction of their adversaries and to reach the heart of the Black Realm. And there, under the command itself of their Monarch, the troops of the ultimate hope were landed, and started their last battle. Stunned enemies observed the sky of their homeland becoming inflamed by the fire of the bombings; and the foes they had believed by now bent, marching neatly and threateningly against them, against the city itself that was the emblem of their strength, the Capital of the Black Realm. The dwelling of The King. And of Lil."

* * *

"Three ordeals?"

The threatening rumble that speaks in the brain resounds powerfully even in its silent way. It fills the mind and is perfectly understandable.

The man frowns. His voice gets husky again from his throat, repeating his previous words, like he were attempting to be well sure to have understood, because the stakes are too important. No mistake is allowed.

"Three ordeals."

He listens to the speechless response, clearly sensing a malevolent pleasure meandering through it.

Unbelievably, a sneer crops onto his lips, a bitterly sarcastic snigger. The habit of a whole life can't be thrown to the winds in a flash, in spite of how dangerous and foolish this may be, in spite of how sharp edged may be the razor blade on which he is dangerously trying to stay in balance without getting cut; even in spite of this frightening world of unreal insubstantiality into which reality appears to have been transformed. And then, that's what's needed, so as not to completely lose reason, to maintain some sort of feeble link with that reality that looks so far, distant, lost. But there still must be reality, somewhere. There must still be this reality, this true reality, one where he and his T'Pol may be able to live happily together, as it seemed that finally it were possible, in the end; the reality where there are no ensouled forests, nor malicious mountains which within conceal unnatural frost and dark burrows; nor places-not-places made up of nothing; nor silent voices threateningly resounding in the brain, and demanding that you have to face terrible ordeals to free the woman of your life; nor any obscure and demoniac and unreal entity enjoying sucking souls, to kill your soul, by torturing the soul of your soul.

And so, almost by their own will, words full of pungent taunt, almost derisive, become free to spread through the dead air. "Three ordeals, uh? Well, you know; I was persuaded that only the devil could love this kind of _**babyish**_ challenge, if this name may mean something for you."

The words get lost in the air; then the mind gets filled again with a silent hubbub; but there are no soundless words, this time. There is… there is a laugh. Unmistakably, a laugh. Wicked and smug. Deep and long. Pleased. Allusive. And malignant. _Malignant_... _**So malignant!**_

_**That**__**'s... That's impossible!**_

This sudden thought spins whirlingly in the stunned mind of the man, chases itself, as if unable to find coherence.

_**Impossible, impossible, impossible...**_

A lash of unbearable pain contorts his being, stopping abruptly the twisted convoy of garbled thoughts. T'Pol's pain! **T'POL'S PAIN!**

_**T'Pol!**_ _**T'POL!**_

Trip's mind rushes to her, after the moment of blindness it has been engulfed into by the incredibility of the idea aroused by that disembodied laugh.

The laugh! The laugh! THAT DAMNED LAUGH! It is still there; it keeps on, and reverberates through the whole being of T'Pol, scourging her with whiplashes ripping out the skin of body and soul.

His eyes watch with horror the jolts that her body makes, hanging from her painful chains, under the billows of the mental hurtful lashings that seem submerging her.

His arms snap upward. "Stop! Stop! STOP! I won't speak ever again! I will do everything you want! I swear! **Stop, please! Stop**!"

The vociferous and still silent laugh ceases, bit by bit, and silence reigns again, within and outside the brain.

There are only the sobs of the woman who collapses once again on herself, stretched between the chains that imprison her wrists and her ankles, now tried to such an extent that she is barely capable of breathing, that she is not able anymore to understand if she is alive or dead.

Gnashing his teeth, the man lowers his arms, caressing his love with eyes filled with weeping despair. The only thing he can do, to alleviate, if that's possible, the pain of her torture; to make her feel his closeness; to help her.

_The only thing, besides..._

He inflates her lungs, gathering all the residual strength that remains to him. He shouts loud, with the force of desperation. "There is no need to torture her again. You accepted my challenge and I accept your conditions. If I go under, I will die by any death you will want to give me, and my woman – my T'Pol - will be yours, body and soul."

Trip's voice becomes stronger. "But, if I pass the ordeals, whichever they are, my woman will be free, and will be allowed to come back to our world."

Even stronger. "_Irrespective of the destiny that you will decide to reserve to me_."

A feeble puff blows in his mind; feeble, because T'Pol has no longer any strength, but it resounds strong, though, in Trip's soul. And clear: clear and filled with all the weak protest her Katra may have.

He straightens, as much as he can, and he repeats more loudly what he has just said, so as to make it vanish every possible doubt in the averse mind.

And in T'Pol's mind. To make her aware that this is the bargain, and no other road is allowed. And to caress her with the mellow breeze of his indefectible love.

"If I win, my destiny will be in your hands, but in any case my woman will be free, and it will be guaranteed that she come back unharmed and intact to our reality, in the care of the friends who love her."

_**Even… even… Even**__** the devil must have honour!**_

Then, ignoring the doleful look of despairing refusal that shines in the eyes of his T'Pol even through the tears of total exhaustion are misting, the man raises proudly his chin and throws his last defiance.

"I am ready. Shoot your first request."

The two soulless eyes that replenish the sight seem to sparkle with a savage amusement. Some sort of underground thrill seems to reverberate in the brain. There is a meaning... it can be understood... it is a devilish fleer that speaks... that says... gibingly… "_**Devil's honour!**_"

A fierce and powerful wind begins to blow; it assails both Trip and T'Pol, who starts to oscillate between the tethers that enchain her. The wind brings something with itself, together with some pieces of shadows of unexpressed words. "… _**Devil's… honour..**_".

Nothing can be clearly understood, but the _something_ the wind brings with itself... Yes! It can be understood!

A new strength starts to run through Trip's body; thirst and fatigue, weakness and exhaustion, evaporate like dew in the sun; under the incredulous eyes of the speechless man, his wounds start to shrink, more and more quickly, until they disappear totally; no blood, no dry throat, no remnant of what he had had to endure.

His astonished eyes leave his own body and go to his love. She is still hanging by her chains, nude and helpless, but now she no longer looks like as an enervated doll, gray and ill, trying to keep her life with a wisp of breath. She appears valid and strong, and her hands seem as endeavouring to fight against the chains that imprison her. She is beautiful and marvellous, as marvellous as her eyes, shining with strength and wonder; the wonder coming both from her own unexpected retrieved vigour and from the retrieved wholesome and strong appearance she sees now in her man, who is watching her with the same wonder in his eyes.

The wind fades away, it vanishes. As the alien eyes. They too disappear. It remains only Trip and T'Pol. They look at each other, trying to understand. The man to the feet of his enchained love; the woman looking down at her man from her invisible cross of duress.

And the explanation resounds in their minds.

They are fragments of concepts, once again words without sound, that ring in the depth of the mind, intertwined with a kernel of evident perfidious pleasure.

"_**Honour... Devil?...**__** Interesting... Inferiors... Let do... Pleasurable... Vain fight... Enjoyable... Delicious... Crush them... Illusion..."**_

A dumb rage mounts inside the man. Come what may, it's time to put an end to this play.

He turns all around, lifting his arms aloft and looking upward. He yells to the void. Stupidly, idiotically, foolishly. But, after all, what can there be if not stupid, not idiotic, not foolish in a stupid, idiotic, foolish, absurd situation like that one? What can be done if not acting in the most foolishly bold way against the blind power of the obtuse evilness?

"I am not a funny toy! And I am not unwarlike! Did you enjoy enough! Now it's my turn! THE FIRST TRIAL!"

The void trembles. There is like a perception of restrained beastly wrath. Then all ceases. One moment of bated expectation.

Then a scream, that gets lost rapidly in the farness.

"**TRIIIIIIIIIIIP!"**

The man turns around in a flash towards his T'Pol. She is no longer there where she was before. He follows the echo of her shriek. He sees her. On high. A small figure that draws away swiftly, until it becomes a point that vanishes into an horizon that there is not.

Petrified in dismay, he stays motionless, unable to think, to understand, his wide open eyes locked on the far inexistent horizon where his reason of life is faded away.

Then, powerful and deafening, the by now well-known soundless sound explodes in his mind, with a strength almost unendurable, that forces him to bend on his knees.

There are words, now, clear and loud. Absolutely comprehensible.

"**FOLLOW HER. FIND HER. REACH HER. FREE HER**."

The dazed man stands up with effort, and stares at the imaginary point where his hapless woman has disappeared. He inhales sharply, and he makes as if he were to snap forwards, but the silent sound in his brain blocks him abruptly.

Words. Again. Ominously sibilant.

"**DEVIL'S HONOUR."**

He frowns, trying to understand; then, suddenly... his tattered uniform disappears. He finds himself… stark-naked. Except for something he feels on his head.

He brings his right hand at his head and grabs this something. He gazes it. Fixedly. He turns it over, before his eyes, trying to figure out, to be uncaring of his nakedness.

A hat; a broad-brimmed hat.

And just then, in his brain, again, the same words. Plainly amused.

"**DEVIL'S HONOUR."**

And in his left hand appears a military flask, heavy, clearly full.

_What __does this all mean?_ _**What?**_

One more time. The loud buzz in the brain. The same words. The same scary sense of malign amusement.

"**DEVIL'S HONOUR."**

And, right after… Heat, strong, on the skin. The eyes snap to look upward. They can't. On high an incandescent disc appeared, that cannot be watched. An enormous sun that enlightens everything with a merciless light, irradiating a scorching warmth. And just then, just while he is starting to understand, a new soundless noise replenishes his mind. It is again a laugh; it begins slow and low, then increases until it becomes an irrepressible guffaw, bad and malevolent, so sonorous that it hurts. It decreases bit by bit and two words can be plainly sensed at its end.

"**DEVIL'S HONOUR."**

Then silence again, tense and bated, until, at last, the environment changes.

Aloft, a sky white by heat, with the red-hot sun burning in the middle.

All around, the brown and the gold of dunes swept from a warm wind, that get lost in the distance, endless, in the vision oppressed by the blinding light that is reflected on the infinite expanse of sand.

The man looks straight forward.

Naked; the hat in his right hand; the military flask in his left.

_Devil's honour. Yeah. Sure. _

_The honour. __**The honour of the devil!**_

He observes the sandy sea which extends in front of him, behind him, in every direction; which burns beneath his bare feet. He watches the air trembling by the intense heat.

_Deserts._

**He hates the deserts.**

* * *

I am unable to shirk the fascination of His Excellency's narration. The scene of the tragedy is ready, now. It is perfectly staged. I can feel its tart taste on my tongue.

I stay absolutely silent, hanging on the lips of His Excellency, waiting for him to keep on telling.

And Mal - even with all the British self-control he has, even with all the fierce impatience that he is feeling, like me. On the other hand - he too doesn't say a word, clearly displaying the way with which he is stuck into the storytelling of the Bannerda, like me; waiting, like me, for knowing the destiny of The King. And of Lil. And - I can't help but unconsciously shudder under the sharp blade of a fear that goes beyond the mere impression the narration exerts over me - of all those who were marked by their destiny.

Like us. Like Trip and T'Pol.

* * *

As a deep and unfathomable breath that blows through and over all things; that is the reason for all that there is in this place, only because he exists, The King; as a breath of renewed and incognizable life; as a breath that takes from an immemorial past the vigour for a new future… the nearly born again Sire watches attentively the game played on the chessboard of its will.

He sees, looks, observes.

The King is back. He is really back.

_The knowledge_ is back, now; not only the awareness.

Now he knows who he is. The power he had; and he has. And he might have.

Where he is. Why he is here. And the way.

And what he has to do.

Now he is capable of comprehending what that man means for him, not only by means of the rebirth of an unreasonable conscience, made of blind rage, of beastly lust for blood and revenge, of longing for a lifeless life obtained through life of sacrificial victims offered to him to keep him in that larva of existence where his mortal enemies had been able to imprison him.

The King is back. And back is his cold capability to reason with the icy blade of his keen intelligence.

The woman...

Useful, sure. And it's delicious being able to feel again the delightful pleasure of exerting the power of life and death over such a beautiful creature; to experience again the enjoyment of wielding his immense power to torture, to crush between the force of his mind the powerless soul and the defenceless body of the lower creatures.

Yes, that splendid woman was what he needed. Because she is who she is and because she brought to him, to the King, the man who would give him again the breathe of true life.

Oh yes, the King is back; with all the cognizance he had and has; and, especially, with the cognizance of what he - himself! - was able to plan to one day regain his essence. His whole being.

That woman... perfect! Just the woman that it would have to be in order to awaken his memory and his cognition. He had known that such a woman would have been, one day. It was a statistical matter, it would have been enough being capable to wait, keeping himself alive with the vital substance of those women who would have come first; and, in addition, taking revenge in this way, even in his unconscious life-non-life, on those who had reduced him so, of the race and of the women themselves - _**The women! The women, sure!**_ - belonging to that race. The women who had deprived him of his Lil.

Lil...

_Lil._

Would it be possible that that woman, that T'Pol, that... Vulcan? Vulcan, yes. - Such a young race, born evidently very long after his... falling asleep. - Would it be possible that she may really be his Lil, back to life in the body of another woman?

Strange thought, this one; strange. Or, maybe not that strange. After all, if in the end he became what he became before his foes - the so called Great Monarch - were able to entrap him, this was just because he lost his Lil, the unthought-of... _the indispensable_... spark of her love; the warmth that he had never known. To deny this would be deceive himself, falling prey to the same errors of the inferior creatures, whose incapability of comprehending the reality and whose obstinacy in wallowing in the self-trickery, were and are the cause of their inferiority and of their obvious fate to be dominated by him, the King, the only bearer of truth.

So, nothing strange this desire to see - to find - in this woman his Lil, came back to the land of the living. As him.

But Lil was not him, the King. She... she cannot come back from where she has gone.

There... there has been neither time nor way to arrange for such possibility.

A breath of annoying irritation runs through the essence of the one who was able to acquire the most immense power that may exist. He chases away this fastidious thought. Lil has given to him the miracle of her love, but he cannot allow himself to be contaminated by her dangerous diversity. And then... she accepted - _she wanted him_ - for what he was. For what he is! The King! The pitiless - _**The soulless!**_ - Lord of evil! Or rather, of what the inferior creatures name: _**"evil"**_, thinking it's evil the natural destiny of total domination of the one who was born to possess everything and everyone, whose indisputable superiority gives him the right to do all; all he wants, without caring about anyone.

This desire from his part, this irrational wish that the female could be his reborn Lil... it is understandable, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that this woman - this Vulcan female - was able to give him, The King, what he needed; by means of her marvellous appearance, so similar, both outwardly and inwardly, to the one of Lil that it has been able to pull him out from his limbo of nothing; and by means of the man she has tied to her. A man of another race, a race even younger than hers.

As time has gone!

But even that doesn't matter, not even a bit.

He is The King. He has all the time of universe.

And he had known that, sooner or later, his time would arrive; that this woman would arrive, and even the man able to make him again... the King. _**The reliving King**_.

Even that was a statistical matter. He had been aware even of that. Sooner or later, even this would happen. The probability was infinitesimal, but there it was. It was a mere matter of waiting, a matter of time. But he - The King - had and has… and will have… all time of universe. Even time belongs to him.

And the facts proved him right. What he wanted and awaited for, here it is. Here is the woman he awaited for, and here is the man whose mind will be annihilated by the puissance of his will, imprisoned into his own mind, and whose body will become the new powerful casing of his immortal essence; the man who will put him in a position to take his full revenge and to realize - finally - his destiny.

An infinitesimal chance? Of course, but it has existed, and he had planned all.

When such a woman would appeared, he would know. _What – and those - he had left behind him_, would know. And would have made sure that the woman was brought to him.

She should have the force to push him to come out from his condition. This wouldn't be enough to restore his true life, but would give him the chance to search for a body and a mind able to give him this chance.

But evidently, his plans had worked even better, because the woman able to be the one he awaited for, was also the woman able to bring to him the man whose body and mind were those he should search for in the short time he would have before he should cede again to his bestial necessity, loosing himself one more time.

This one was not even an infinitesimal probability; he hadn't even thought it might occur. And, though, even this has happened, and what counts at present is to accept it without futile cerebrations, taking advantage of it, with expedient pragmatism.

And what - and those - he had left behind him, had realized that this unexpected circumstance had come true.

And have acted.

* * *

"What happened to the King? And to Lil?"

Malcolm gives life to my questions. And his voice... it resounds leaden, and strangely calm, as if he were totally forgetful of his previous impatience, because..

"Because, it's evident, Your Excellency, that if, as it seems, we have to believe in the King's existence, the destiny that they met - he and his Lil - are the key to understand the destiny of ourselves. Of T'Pol. And, consequently, of Trip."

I snap my eyes at Mal. It is as if he were speaking with my inner thoughts, as if he were saying my exact unspoken words. He has even completed the phrase I was pensively saying to myself.

Maybe... maybe there is not only the Vulcan Bond, the one that ties the two Commanders. The Bond... - It was Trip who told me this - ... it is the alien and strange way with which Vulcans reveal their being in love. But it is still love; and I am in love with Mal. And he with me. Maybe the Bond is something that occurs between lovers; special, for the Vulcans; but, in some way, universal. Maybe it is nothing more than the strength of love, expressing itself with the language and the ways proper to each breed.

His Excellency draws me out from my wonder. He talks. He talks with a dead voice.

"In that day of ferocious hate, our breed - the one that should have been the beacon of good - lost its honour. Evil had defiled us. In the space of only one night, we slew - atrociously - every member of that abhorred race and its sordid allies, those who had had the misfortune to be there, in that night of darkness. Their blood replenished the furrows of the land, in an orgy of massacre."

I cannot restrain myself. "And the King, your Excellency? The King? And... - my voice trembles - ... and Lil?"

The old Bannerda watches us with a weird look. "As far as it may sound unbelievable, the King wasn't present at the final battle. The Great Captain of the Imperial Escort of the Great Monarch swore that he had been seen, for some instants, and that his mere presence had been capable of throwing into chaos our troops, but suddenly he was not there any more. He had disappeared. And his soldiers had been plummeted into panic by that."

The Bannerda lowers his tone. "While the tragedy was happening, the Great Monarch decided to face the demon. His life or the one of the Black Sire. His own death, or his."

His Excellency makes a short pause. Then resumes, gravely. "He gathered his most trusted and powerful warriors and marched to the King's palace. They didn't meet any resistance. They broke down the doors and entered the lair of the devil."

The Bannerda lowers his voice even more. "And silence and emptiness welcomed them; and slowed their steps."

I can see it. The night, the flames, the blasts, the yells. And the silence of the empty palace, where the Great Monarch and his warriors could hear on the cold floor their muffled footfalls, suddenly restrained in their impetuous run by the unexpected and tense sensation of the lack of people and noises that they met in the residence of their unnameable adversary.

They had necessarily slowed down their precipitous run, were forced to do it by the unnatural atmosphere they found there, by the hushed void that had received them.

They had to break their rushing out of breath toward the revelation of the destiny of the King.

And of Lil.

* * *

A sort of evil smile seems to run across the non existent being of the one who exists yet again.

Yes. They have acted. They obeyed his ancient orders. His devices, connected with his own vital essence, had noticed the fated woman's existence and had launched the signal, as his still operating will had ordered. And his concealed henchmen, his worshipers, had found her and had brought her to him.

The wicked smile made with the nothing deepens. It is beautiful to be fully aware of reality, instead than having the fogged vision of a lifeless life. Yes, it is beautiful and invigorating perceiving and examining the mess of data that his devices poured out in him; and knowing – exactly - the way things have happened; and how the living creatures of this time are the same as in the past; ready to fall prey to the envy and of evil; _**of him!**_ Just like in the past. Like that male, that Vulcan male, who helped his fellows with the Vulcan woman who reawakened him. With her, and with her Human man. The Vulcan male who indicated to his followers the woman that they had to find and who suggested to them the right idea to bring her to him; and that is to suggest his hated enemies to ask those humans for finding out what was the signal, so that the woman and her man were brought to him. By their own free will. Thrusting themselves into the lair of the wolf.

The malignant delight that is crossing him again, the perfidious pleasure to be able again to play with the lives of those who are under his heel, it grows a little more yet.

It is priceless being able to feel again such a delicious pleasure.

The evil unsubstantial smile broadens.

Now he has full perception and knowledge of all that happened, of every thought and deed and purpose and intention that were spread on the path that the female had to walk along to come to him; and if she has fallen in his hands, this was due to the envy and to the resentment of that Vulcan male. Koss. That's his name.

These Vulcans... bizarre people. What he found in the brain of the Vulcan female has revealed to him that this breed tries to suppress emotions and feelings so as to attempt to live…to live justly, as they would say. Poor worms, poor little insects. Like all the inferior creatures, even this breed seeks what it cannot have, and falls in the eternal trap of the self-deception.

Trying to separate the reason from emotions. In the name of what they call logic. Once again another - _the umpteenth_ - self-deception of these poor, inferior living beings, always incapable of understanding their inner essence, unable to draw from it the balance they need to rise above their weaknesses. Unable to realize their inferiority.

They deserve the existence of him, of the King!

His ancestral foes, the Bannerdas, were the only ones who deign to be his rivals; they were made with his same matter, they were the other horn of the primeval flame that had generated both him, with his progeny, and the Bannerdas, with theirs. But all the other species, the ones born from their seed… stupid and foolish little creatures, unworthy to be considered. And the species born lately, after his apparent and momentary defeat… weaker and more stupid than the previous, it seems. Most likely because they have received the same silly characteristics of the Bannerdas, being all of them the unaware sons of them. But, fortunately, though much diluted, the seed of him and his breed appears to be still well operative even now, judging from what he was able to see in the brains of the Vulcan female and of the Human man. It was too powerful to be lost, even in the abyss of time passed since the extermination of his race.

The wrath stirs deep down in the infernal essence.

_The extermination of his breed, by the hand of those who affirmed to be better than him, the face of light of the universe._

_**A really luminous breed, sure!**_

But they had the force to counter him. At that time, though. Certainly not now. Certainly not now that they have lost their true essence, and have forgotten all the science and the knowledge they had.

Yes, his time has really arrived. Once he has conquered his new body, nothing and nobody will be able to oppose him. Neither the shadow of those who were the true Bannerdas nor these abysmally inferior species that live now. Like these Humans, under the thumb of their emotions, or - even worse - like these Vulcans, so stupid that they try to deny the engine itself of any thought and any action, the emotions and the feelings. So stupid that they are incapable of understanding that, just at the moment that you think or act, you do it under the pushing of an emotion, of a feeling, regardless of how much you are able to control your brain.

This is the best way to fall prey of the most sordid impulses at the first occasion. As it was with this Koss. When a man is a caitiff, who tries to reach his abject aim by hiding his ignoble conduct under the mantle of a false magnanimity, this man will be always the same. Always. And there will be no more or less stupid logic able to conceal his true essence, the time someone will make him see a possibility of having what he hasn't been able to have or - without anyone being able to have an inkling of the reprisal he is perpetrating - of making some kind of retaliation against those whom he didn't want to or was able to openly thwart. Such kind of creatures are easy prey of the deception, because they are in the habit of deceiving themselves, even unconsciously; and these Vulcans seem to be very capable of deceiving themselves. More or less unconsciously.

This species - these Vulcans - will be a very useful species of slaves. Their logic - this weird myth of them, only useful to make them more vulnerable to the savage strength of their true being, when their shields get broken - makes them perfect to be perfect slaves. They are unable to rebel against a master they recognize stronger than them: logic would prevent them from doing what logic suggests being illogical and fruitless. It was a great luck for them to meet the Humans. Their blind mentality can be well offset by the powerfully emotional behaviour of Humans, as, on the other hand, the volatile emotional behaviour of Humans can be very well offset by the rigour of Vulcans. But it is too late. It seems that this female - this T'Pol - is the first Vulcan woman who tied herself to a Human; there are no other couples. And now - from now on - the only couples that there will be, it will be those that he - the King - will allow them to be. But he won't allow a force coming from the union between these two races to come true, a force that might be a possible resistance against his power in this new universe made of wretched breeds, as it seems to suggest the strength that, coming from love of the Vulcan female, there is in this Human man, who has challenged him. From now on, nothing will be allowed. Nevermore. Nothing that won't be wanted by him. The King.

From now on, there will be only him. The King.

From now on, the Vulcans won't have any more need to deceive themselves, with the foolish mirage of their futile logic. There will be other deceptions, able to fully enslave them, and Humans with them; and all the other races that are living now.

The evil smile becomes a grim and self-satisfied subtle laugh.

Other deceptions, sure. Like he is about to demonstrate to this defiant creature, to this Human man, who thought that he, the King, may in regard to the honour the same behaviour of the inferiors beings.

After all, is not… _**the Devil**_… the Lord of deceptions?

_**

* * *

**_

TBC

The… DEVIL? - And of chapter six


	8. Chapter 8

**In the Halls of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

_**Chapter seven**_

_**(The seventh after the Prologue - The eighth counting the Prologue)**_

* * *

_Slowly but surely the story goes on. _

_I know, I know: I am damn slow and prone to give rise to questions at the same time I try to provide answers to those previously raised._

_But, what do you want ... for me writing is like rummaging in a box full of surprises that come into view one after another, all claiming their place in the sun. _

_I hope you, my dear readers, may understand me._

_So, let's see__. Where were we? Ah yes, the trials, the three trials that Trip must face to free (maybe) T'Pol. We left him naked and helpless in the desert._

_A bad deal for a guy like him who certainly has every reason not to love the deserts._

_Then there are Malcolm and Hoshi, who are listening (with a certain degree of impatience) to what His Excellency__, the boss of the Bannerdas, is revealing to them about this ancient King and about that poor unfortunate female, that Lil (by the way: not bad their story after all, is not it? Please tell me 'yes'!)_

_And last but not least, there are our brave heroes (Phlox and Archer and Travis and friends) who (do you remember?) are rushing to certain death. It is a long time that I don't say anything about them. _

_Well, sooner or later ... _

_For now, however, other things are boiling in pot._

_Would you like to know what I am cooking?_

_I hope so._

_And…_

_**My dear Linda, my marvellous Beta, thank you for the umpteenth time. And let me tell you, certainly not the last.**_

* * *

_Just to resume the thread: here we start again from the story of His Excellency, the Grand Chief of Bannerdas. _

_We had stopped at the time when the Ancient Monarch and his warriors had entered the King's Palace. _

_They're looking for him._

_(And in meantime Trip has lots of troubles; on the other hand, when ever is he not in trouble?)_

* * *

**In the Halls of the Mountain King**

_**Chapter seven**_

They found him.

In his immense throne room.

He was sitting on it, stiff. Immovable, under the high and empty vaults.

Everyone stopped their steps abruptly. They were seeing in person the living legend of Evil, the one of whom only the Ancient Monarch had knowledge of as the real immanence, with concrete solid memory.

But, somewhat, he didn't seem the Demon he was. There wasn't demoniac fury on his face, or derisive attitude, or ungodly bumptiousness; and his pose... it wasn't the pose of the King of any Evil.

Of The King.

How could this creature, _the King_, appear spiritless? Crestfallen?

And how it was possible that he hadn't wanted to play a personal role in the mortal and final match that was played that night? That so easily, without a shot being fired, they had been able to enter his dwelling and that he didn't even deign to glance at the warriors who had violated it? Not even the Ancient Monarch, his fateful foe?

And… that the black embers of his eyes appeared as extinguished, that everything in those moments he was limiting himself to do was merely watch, immovable and silent, a body, inert, lying, supine and composed, upon a low marble table, embellished by rich decorations, that stood in the middle of the room, in front of his throne, in front of his blank look?

A man - tall and puissant, even if not like the Ancient Monarch, with a big bushy beard, dressed in shining armour - stepped slowly ahead out from the handful of warriors still on their feet. He stared, without saying a word, at the motionless body lying on the marble, devoid of any trace of breath.

A sigh, feeble, went out of his mouth.

A name."

Once again I am unable to prevent myself from anticipating His Excellency in his recount and I utter the word, the name, that that ancient warrior had sighed and that the Bannerda was about to say.

I know what name it was. I murmur it in a low voice, feeling the hand of my Mal holding mine with mild force.

"Lil".

The Bannerda looks at me and he nods silently.

It is as if he would give body to my thoughts.

"Yes, it was Lil. It was hers, the body lying on the marble table without life and the man, the warrior who murmured her name…"

"It… was her father, isn't it, Excellency?"

The Old Bannerda seems not to care for my ulterior interruption. He simply nods again, while I feel the grasp of my Mal become a little heftier.

"It's so, Ensign. It was her father. He was touching with his own hands that everything was true; that for real his daughter wasn't an ill-willing slave, forcedly oppressed under the power of Evil, as he had desperately hoped, but she had become an active part of the Evil Realm, not to say the most important part, together with the King; that what was told and his Monarch had taken for truth was really the truth; that Evil had played with him the most wicked of games. With him and above all with his daughter. And that even if he had found her still alive, he would have lost her in any case.

For her, there was no salvation.

He watched the richly decorated marble deathbed, fit for a queen, for _**The**_ queen; the kingly insignias she wore, evident and unanswerable testimony of what she had become. No chains, no signs of violence, which he had together feared and hoped. There were only those insignias, which stood out gleaming on the ashen colour of her skin, on that wonderful face, pale and immovable, on those livid lips, that wouldn't smile anymore.

He watched them at the same time that he contemplated her death; and the end of all illusion.

And, while, in his harrowing acquired awareness, he was walking slowly toward the one who had been his loved child, he felt - like a physical and painful claw, tearing flesh and blood - the bodily and infernal presence of the monster who had been the cause of everything.

He detached his eyes from that inert form and looked at the Enemy, all the love he had had for his lost daughter turned suddenly into hatred capable of consuming the Universe."

Malcolm and I look bewildered at the Bannerda, struck by the flowing of his speech. It is as if he wanted to take us away, far away, back in time. As if the ardour, the heat, the eloquence of his words, sounding weird and inappropriate in this situation, were the means by which he wants us to understand.

What?

That we, all of us, regardless where we are born, are the sons of a past that knows no boundaries, that permeates every world and every people and that from this past will be born our future?

And because of that, we have to comprehend, fully and without the preconceptions of the civilized people we claim to be, what is behind us, if we want to escape the dark traps of a flagitious possible future?

I don't know, but, in spite of all the pressing urgency that calls on us, in spite of the unreal tragedy that swallowed our friends, it is as if the world where we are is dissolving in a more ancient world, disappearing from time immemorial, yet somehow really existed, even if its memory is deformed by the wing of time.

A world where huge tragedies took place, mothers of the tragedy that has engulfed us now; sources of the intangible, unknown Evil that has gobbled Trip and T'Pol.

And all this wickedness, all this evil, originated from love.

From the sick love of a fragile woman for a soulless demon ... and - I know, I feel it - from the love, broken and turned into a violent and rabid hatred, of a father for his beloved daughter, lost in a way that men are unable to comprehend, nor conceive.

My mind goes back in time, to the hands of my father, to the loving kindness of his caresses. I can't even imagine the pain of a father who lost a daughter, and nothing at all the heartbreaking sorrow of a father who lost a daughter in this way, and who hoped, against any reason, to retrieve her just as she had been and he remembers she was, unable to believe she could have really fallen into the obscure possession of Evil.

Only this could a father believe: his daughter, the child whom he has so many times cuddled with the love that only a father can have, will always be for him the daughter whom he had caressed in the days of serenity, of a hopeful future.

And I can perfectly understand how all this love can be transformed in endless and blind hatred, even if I am unable to have an exact perception of the unutterable pain of a father, who…

"From the man's contorted mouth it slid out, sibilant, a few words."

I startle at the harsh tone with which the Bannerda spits out these words, breaking the sorrowful flow of my thoughts and in such an improper way for him. Mal's grip gets harden on my hand.

Hissing and as filled with the same burning hatred that that father had had to feel, words that weigh as stones gush out from the lips of our host.

They are, I know, the words of unknowable fury of hate that that father, crazed by pain, had addressed to the Demon who had engulfed his daughter in the perdition of body and soul.

"**The day of your end has arrived, foul beast.**" – A very brief pause, which increases the tension with which we are listening to, then ... - "**And it will be by my hand.**"

His Excellency pauses again, as if trying to give more strength to his words; and in fact now I, and certainly also Mal, have understood that this is what he wants. His attitude, theatrical one might say, his way of speaking, his peculiar manner to tell us those ancient and mythical events as if it were the words of a Greek bard... maybe all this is part of Bannerdas' way of being. They are old, now I am aware of how they are old, if it's possible to conceive such immeasurable antiquity; they live of their past more than of their present, for them their past is the shade of their future and it is understandable that their manner of speaking can be as high-sounding as, now we know, it's high-sounding their endless past.

But, very more likely, everything is done on purpose, to fully grab our minds and to make us clearly understand that he is not speaking in vain, of empty things, that we must pay the greatest attention to what…

"You have to pay the greatest attention to what I am about to say, my guests." - _I must restrain myself. This Bannerda, this very old man, part of a race so old, so antique… Is he capable of reading people's thoughts, by chance?_ – "Yes, it's needed you do so. You must listen with keen and open mind to what is told that happened in that night of damnation, because from this proceeds all that is happening in our days. And now I know that, even in its formless darkness, the legend… is true."

* * *

*_Okay, man, okay. How would he say, my Italian co-worker? Ah yes, calm and chalk. Exactly, calm and chalk. Namely, focus and carefulness. Yes, that's the way. Weighting. No rashness. No precipitance. In one word… logic. Yes. Logic. This is how. My... my T'Pol would act so._*

The pitiless sun shines high in the sky of fire. The bare skin burns in its heat. The hot sand is blazing on the soles of the feet. The warm wind, dragging with it countless grains of impalpable sand, takes away breath.

But all this doesn't count.

_**It mustn't count.**_

Slowly, with studied nonchalance, the man bends quietly and puts down on the burning sand the hat clearly given him by wicked mockery, and along with it the water bottle, containing – this is evident - a little water, useless in its scarcity.

Then he straightens up and, as if he has the desert in great disdain, folds his arms and looks forward, remaining firm, purposeful.

*_Are you watching me, "gracious" beast? Yes? Very well. I am pleased. However, I am afraid what you are going to see will go down the wrong way in your throat.*_

The man cannot avoid grinning to himself with satisfaction. Inside his mind he clearly heard the roar of repressed rage of the unknown beast at his risky jeer.

Risky, even dangerous, perhaps. Sure. But how much satisfactory, in compensation.

And then, now he knows; yes, he is aware that the beast is closed in a corner, so to say; at least he has achieved this aim. As much as this horrendous being can be powerful, now this unknown demon - _this Devil_ - has to observe, without interfere, what he, Trip, will be capable of doing. Yeah. Because this is the game without quarter that the two of them, he and the nameless demon, have silently agreed to play. He must show the value he possesses in order to free T'Pol, accepting every stupid rule that the monster wants to impose, and knowing that his end is marked in each case.

Eh surely; because he knows, felt in his brain, in the alien thoughts that whirled in his head, what his end will be.

Of course. What better than a little of "healthy" fun for this "gentle" beast, at the same time that it can get in this way the actual and clear verification that its choice about the recipient of its essence – even if inevitably forced – was a good one, in case he, Trip, passed unscathed through all the ordeals?

An useful and all in all amusing procrastination of the inescapable end of the man who dared defy this deuce without a name.

*_Perfect, isn't it, damn Lord of any subtlety?_*

But in return, the monster mustn't - _shouldn't, maybe it's most proper_ - interfere. He, Trip, must be able to fully play all his cards. And for that, the beast allowed him to fully recover in body and mind as well as his T'Pol, so that she may be able to have full perception of everything: of his defeat, if he fails. And even of his eventual victory, in case. And of whatever may happen to him.

The smug grin turns off.

Damn evil and soulless beast!

Yeah, because this infernal being knows, as much as him, that in any event, there will be only one winner: the nameless and bodiless monster.

A shadow of deadly fear creeps down, deep down, into the man's soul.

Chilly and black.

_Bodi__less... until now._

*_Oh, hell! What the heck are these thoughts?_* - The man rises up even more, against the stifling wind - *_At least… at least there is some hope for T'Pol._*

Hope? HOPE?

The naked man shakes his head staring ahead, at the ocean of glitzy sand that wounds the eyes.

To hell, if there is only hope! That sordid creature won't have T'Pol!

That's sure!

*_Have you heard, my "courteous opponent"? YOU-WON'T-HAVE-T'POL! And now, you will see why and how!_

_HAVE YOU HEARD?_

_Have you…_*

The man stops suddenly his futile invective. LOGIC, HAS HE SAID! And not acting like his temper would want him to do. If in the past this could have been considered merely childlike by his T'Pol, now it would be mortal for her!

*_Calm down, man. Calm down. Logic, remember? Logic. Like T'Pol would do. She wouldn't waste her time with futile taunts. Even if..._ * - Sadness clenches forcefully his heart - *_... even if, maybe, she would be capable of cracking a joke, exactly like me, even now. Because... because we are one._*

He raises his head in the merciless light and narrows his eyes, attempting to defend himself by the killing reverberation; strained and drawn; looking for.

_Looking for__ the__ other__ part__ of him__._

And down yonder, in the depths of his mind, he finds her. She has a feeble voice, it's faint and quavery her presence, surrounded and stifled by the persistent and pervasive buzz of the alien essence. But it is there.

_And it will be his guidance._

*_We are one, my love, do you feel me? WE ARE ONE!_*

A weak contortion in his mind.

*_Oh yes, I feel you feel me! This time, the beast can't sever our bond, if it wants me to act without restraints! This Devil cannot risk having wrong responses! I have to be what I am, to give this Demon the answers he needs; and the Bond is part of me. Of us, my love. Of both us! Because we are one! So, help me, my love! HELP ME, AS ONLY YOU CAN DO!_*

And there is an answer to his recall. Of pain and terror! And then, a crying, desperate and dumb!

*_T'Pol! T'POL!_*

Rage! Fear!

*_**T'Pol!**_*

Rage! **Rage!**

*_You! You... being treacherous and deceitful! Filthy beast! You cannot! You mustn't ..._*

And once again the mental and alien uproar, made of incorporeal and wicked sneer, provides the response.

The devil is a master of deceit, and men are alone, in front of him.

Alone, only with their God and their courage.

Like him. Trip.

No help!

Only his strength and his value!

His despairing absurd courage.

And the stinging lash of the endless pain of his woman.

Of T'Pol!

And so be it!

With effort the man manages to recompose again himself, desperately attempting to ignore the stabbing sorrow inside him at the perception of T'Pol's heartbreaking despair: _**T'Pol's need is a need of strength from him.**_

One more time, he straightens to show...

To show...

The moment is come.

There is no more time.

Logic.

_Logic._

And control.

Of body and mind.

He closes his eyes, and slowly, slowly, goes down.

He sits on the sand with legs crossed, assuming the lotus position, what T'Pol used when meditating, one that many times she had tried to teach him when she attempted to bring some Vulcan order in this pumpkin of unstable human man.

Invariably yielding to his blandishments of man and lover.

And to her desires of lover and woman.

*_So those were all nonsense, right? Silly nonsense of Vulcans own, right? Want you to put the cool composure of the meditation with the warm satisfaction of making love? The calm control of body and mind with the fire of the kisses and passion? Those things were for ascetics, not things for you, for the solid and earthly man that you are, Trip. Making love with my T'Pol! Other than tedious and snobbish meditating! Other than sterile and exhausting control of the body and mind! There mustn't be control in love! _*

Breathe. Slowly. Calmly. How do Vulcans to enter into meditation. How does T'Pol.

*_Right, right. But maybe a little less about making love - a little less, just a little less - and a little more meditation - a little more, just a little more - would help, now, do not you think, fulgid example of solid and earthly man?_*

This way. Quietly. No hurry. Without anxiety.

*_But if she can crack jokes just as you do, then – perhaps… correction: CERTAINLY! - you can meditate just as she does. You can control your body and your mind, just as she does. After all, there's the Bond between us! There is, damnit. There is! Even now. ESPECIALLY NOW!_*

There, here is. It's happening. Just a little effort yet.

*_Yes, you can, Trip. She told you that you were capable, she was proud of your ability, the few times you wanted to do it. She told you that, if you would, you could exceed even her. If… if she wasn't joking again!_*

There. There.

*_Now you __**have**__ to exceed her! YOU HAVE TO EXCEED EVEN THE GREATEST VULCAN MONKS!_*

Control.

CONTROL!

*_It's easy, Trip. It's logical, T'Pol would say. No man, Vulcan or Human or of whichever race, even the best man, even the wisest, even the stronger, even the greatest, has behind him the push of your love._*

**There.**

**Control.**

*_Your love, Trip! Remember? Your endless love for your T'Pol!_*

THERE!

*_You controlled your death, Trip. For her._*

**THERE.**

*_Would you not be able to control yourself?__For the woman loved by you infinitely more than how a woman could be loved by any man?_*

**T-H-E-R-E.**

*_Infinitely more than how Juliet has been loved by her Romeo? _*

**T-H-E-R-E!**

*_For her, would you be not capable? _*

**THERE!**

*_FOR HER! _*

**YES! THERE!**

* * *

"In front of that father, there was no longer the king of all evil, coming from the beginning of time. There was only the monster that had devoured his daughter, and, without thinking, unable to act lucidly, blinded by pain and anger and hate, he rushed upon the infernal sir, with outstretched hands as claws, to grab that alien neck, and break it, forever.

But there wasn't a simple man, on that throne. There was The King. And Evil can appear dormant, sometimes, but its sleep is light.

If it's ever possible that it can really sleep."

Malcolm and I are absolutely silent. We are strongly holding each other's hand, forgetful of any etiquette. Simply, we are hanging on the Bannerda's lips.

"The warrior prince, the doleful father, didn't even reach the King. The puissant hand of the Dark Sir snapped out the élan of the man just when this one was going to grab him.

As an unstoppable fury, he had suddenly leapt off from his apparent and unthought-of torpor without emitting any sound, had jumped on his feet and had grasped the man's neck with his mighty fingers. Now the warrior, even as powerful as he was, was hanging like a puppet from the King's hand. The Black Sir had raised it in high and it was keeping the warrior prince suspended by his neck with the same easiness with which the paw of a Lion could do with a kitten.

The Ancient Monarch and his men suddenly shook at the sight of what was happening and made as if to dash impetuously towards the awakened monster.

At that moment, from the dark, all around them, suddenly sprang out a very large cohort of black armigers, together with a horde of those horrendous beasts, those ghouls, that were the horrible companions, the bloodthirsty and brainless helpers of the dark warriors of the King's armies. They had waited, silent and keeping the beasts quiet; hidden in the darkness of the ravines along the walls; wisely shielded from the detectors of the men of the Ancient Monarch by means of their technology, as advanced as that of their enemies. Now, as one man, urging the slobbering beasts and savagely screaming and steaming with crazy furor, they assaulted the invaders as these were about to assail their sovereign. But before a single shot was fired, before a single flash of deadly energy was sliced through the air, before a single sword was crossed with another, before any ravenous maw could be bolted around any enemy flesh, a high and peremptory order of the King, almost a roaring scream, froze his men and the beasts.

And the men of the Ancient Monarch, too.

And even the Ancient Monarch, even he stopped abruptly.

He had heard – had felt - _something_ in that chilling and inarticulate roar.

Something that was not just wild rage."

* * *

The heat does not burn.

*_This way._*

The glowing air is sweetly refreshing.

*_Keep it up._*

The burning wind is a gentle breeze that caresses the skin. It is mild, on the mouth and in the lungs; it makes breathing pleasant and easy.

*_Do not lose your concentration._*

The sand is of a warm beach, whose delightful warmth invigorates the muscles, while in the air rises up the sweet murmur of the sea's waves, glinting, over there. And their music strokes the ears.

*_Do not stop. Just like that._*

And the sun... it is the sun, pleasantly warming, shining in the blue sky of Earth, in a mild summer of the blue-green planet where he was born.

*_Perfect. You are great, Trip. You could almost stop being an engineer and take up a career as a Vulcan Monk. T'Pol would be very proud of you._*

T'Pol…

Where… where…?

"T'Pol?"

He stands up, in the mild light, in the sweet warmth that surrounds him.

"T'Pol?"

He looks around.

"T'Pol? Hon?"

He seeks her.

"Lovey?"

She is yet in his brain, he can feel her. And she isn't crying anymore, is not in pain. Her fear is yet palpable, obviously, but the stranglehold of terror that had locked her is loose. That means that she is here, in this place of mind where, at least for the moment, the presence of that demonic creature doesn't seem to be. It worked. So?

*_Come on, baby, I know you're there, and you know this is not enough. I need you._*

"T'Pol. Baby!"

Nothing.

*_Come, darling. Let me see you. I know, this is not the white space that you love so much, but it's worth it anyway, do not you think? Frankly, personally I find this one even better, my love._*

"Trip!"

*_Oh my Lord! Thank you Lord! Thank you, thank you, thank you, my God!_*

He turns quickly at the sound of the voice so much loved and so highly desired. She is there, standing in front of him, her bare feet sunk into the impalpable and warm sand, golden by the laughing sun, of the beach lapped by the mild breeze.

Intact.

Naked and immensely beautiful.

And immensely amazed.

And if possible, this makes her even more beautiful and desirable.

Everything disappears at this time: reality and fiction, demons intangible and yet real, fear and wonder, fatigue and terror, rage and uncertainty ... everything. EVERYTHING! There is only her. Her! HER! And everything else ... does not matter a damn!

And she won't get lost! NO! **She won't!**

Suddenly, he leaps forward, runs toward her, spreading his arms to welcome her in his feverish embrace of love.

And she forgets all sorrow, even her astonishment itself, and she runs, she too, toward him, and takes refuge, trembling with incredulous joy, in his hug of salvation.

She remains so, for many wonderful moments, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, her face buried in his chest, surrounded by his heady scent, without speaking, without thinking, almost without daring to breath.

Living joyously the magical happiness of his indomitable love.

Then, everything comes back, inevitably, to her confused mind. But .. there is no need to get loose from his embrace. It is allowed – _logically allowed_ - to stay yet so, to talk and ask still enclosed in the protective circle of his arms, the head resting on his chest, the nose nestled in his scent, with the cheek resting on his strong muscles, the lips hidden in his rough and yet smooth skin, fragrant by him.

"Trip..." - Softly, gently, brushing the lips against his skin.

"Hon?"

How warm is his voice, coming from above her head, from his mouth, that is kissing sweetly her hair with a multitude of small kisses .

"Trip, how... how...?"

It's marvellous feeling the mild trembling of his chest against her cheek, as it shakes with his soft laugh. His laugh! How wondrous is his laugh! How much she wished to hear it again! What a terror to lose it, to lose him!

"Well, darling! Are we bond-mates or are we not?"

"But... but you are not Vulcan! You... you cannot..."

Again, his wonderful laugh. Oh yes, yes! Still so! Buried in his arms!

"Evidently I can, Hon. Don't you think it's… _illogical_… denying the facts' reality?"

*_Oh more, more! Yes more! Tease me again just the way you know to do, as only you can, Ashayam!_*

"After all, I've made you able to joke. Why should you not be capable of making me able to build my personal _white space_ to share with you? Well, maybe it is a little different from what one a Vulcan can conceive, but I don't think it is disagreeable, is it?"

*_Oh still! Still so, my T'hai'la! Still so!_*

"But... T'Pol..."

*_No. NO! Don't do it, Ashayam! Don't take this serious tone! Don't tell me what I know. I want to stay so. __**I want to stay so!**_*

But it's impossible. She knows it, and knows why her Ashayam is gently forcing her to raise her head and to look into his eyes; his eyes so blue, so beautiful! So glistening with love for her.

"T'Pol, my love ..."

Softly, gently, persuasively. But how hard is it! How he would like to ignore everything and get lost in her eyes; so dark, so beautiful! So glistening with love for him.

But it's impossible. He knows it, and knows that she knows it the same way.

"Hon, here we are safe. No one inside your head, no monstrous creature, no pain, no torture. An oasis of calm where, at least for the time being, that creature doesn't seem to be penetrating, or doesn't seem to want to penetrate. All that he can see or in any way you want to call it his perception, it's me, sitting on the sand of the desert, doing who knows what, and you, chained I don't know where. But you know that this is an unreal place, you know it, and we can't stay here forever. Apart from the fact that I would not be able to support such an effort for so long, that being won't allow us to deceive him so easily. He will understand and penetrate here, and split our minds as watermelons, taking by force what I managed to steal at the moment with guile. You are the teacher, I am the disciple, so it is useless that I talk with you of things you know much better than me, and that I explain what to do. _I must find you and free you for real._ And only you can make me able to do it. You know it as well as me. For that, I made this mad effort, something that I wouldn't ever have thought I could be able to do and that only I could do, because your mind was totally invaded by that devilish being and because he gave me power to act more or less freely, by accepting my challenge. This was the only way: I had to find you here, to be able to find you even in the real world. If... if that one is truly a world... real!"

There. It is done. He said everything, everything that needed to be said. He would never have thought of being able to speak so long, in such an articulate and complex way. He finds it hard to recognize himself. But he is no longer the man of a time, the rough-and-ready man of just a few words and many facts, and not infrequently of scant ponderation and too impetuosity.

There is the Bond now.

There is T'Pol.

And he must save her. With the facts, but also with words.

In any way he can.

At any cost.

T'Pol…

His T'Pol. His reason to be.

She didn't even notice his way of speaking. It is quite something else that replenishes her brain and her Katra.

Her wonderful face is again buried on his chest. The relentless truth of his words tears apart her mind. No. NO! She cannot go back, cannot again feel that… that _**thing**_ inside her head. She cannot. She cannot! **SHE CANNOT!** And… and then...

"My treasure, T'Pol... "

How can one do? How can a man, so in love and so conscious of the feelings, of the perceptions and sensations of the woman he loves so much, be capable of asking her to give her consent to such a great suffering? And yet this must be done. This one, this place, is a notional salvation, useful only to attain real salvation. _**Her**_ salvation, for real.

The strength of his embrace grows, he holds her tightly to him, kisses her fragrant hair, pushing back, deep down, the tears of despair and pain that he feels emerge in his eyes.

His voice is a faint whisper in her ears. - *_Her marvellous pointed ears! _* - "Hon, there is no other way, you know it."

She does not move away her head from his chest, huddles strongly against him. She talks, in a very low voice, with her lips pressed against his chest.

"Trip, I can't go back! It is… it is impossible to have the slightest idea of what it is to have that thing inside the mind!"

He feels her bestir violently against him, between his arms. He has never seen her like this.

"Oh my life! I…"

"And then… I don't want you to find me!"

"Hon?"

"If... if you find me... if you free me... you will have won the first ordeal."

"Darling, yes. So..."

"So you will have to face the second."

"Sure, Hon, and..."

"And if you will go through it, it will come the third, the final one."

"It's so, Hon, and if I..."

"And if you will win the final ordeal..."

"You will be free, my love. And safe."

Those splendid eyes of her, are raised once again to look at the face of her love. They are filled with tears.

"Perhaps, my Ashayam. Perhaps, for what we know. But my salvation will be your perdition."

And now? What could he reply? What?

Those wondrous eyes of her shine by tremulous tears. Her mouth trembles.

"How could I live without you, T'hai'la? How can you believe that I can be safe, if you are lost?

Now it is absolutely necessary reply something. And indeed well. It is... it is needed being the Trip she loves.

He holds her to him again, with infinite gentleness - with infinite love - burying her head in his chest one more time.

His voice sounds almost cheerful, like teasing. "I think I should really apologize to you, my love."

Her voice resounds from his chest, feeble and puzzled. "For… for what?"

"Because I have contaminated you with my humaneness, with my human weakness. You must be strong, darling, as a Vulcan woman has to be. You mustn't be weak as a human female."

Her head snaps upwards and she stares at him almost in rage. Her voice mirrors her visage. "I am not weak! I've never been so strong since I became yours! The other Vulcan females don't know what they lose! With you, I am able to be in all my potentiality and to live fully and completely the life we share – **this gorgeous life!** - without any fear for things my countrymen won't ever have, if not in reason of Humans' grace, Humans like you; things that make life deign to be lived; things as… _as your... as your love, my Ashayam!_ This, your love, _**our**_ love, makes me complete and immensely strong! With effort and with absurd struggling within, I have learned this, but I have learned, at last! Your love makes me much stronger than any other woman, and... and I can't get along without it!"

He not if it gives of it for understood. But how hard it is! **How hard is it!** Why must she speak of their love in this way, with such an ardour, with such a sincere and unrepressed élan, just now? Why must she say now - right now - words that in other moments would make him explode with joy, and now just make things more difficult? Just make him die by pain? Why must she speak so now? JUST NOW?

But he must, absolutely must, be adamant and tough. This time he can't be a weak Human; weakness is not allowed for him, this time. And so he goes on, trying not to be deviated from the purpose he must pursue because of the immensity of what she said. - "And because I have contaminated you with all my human illogic."

Her voice resounds again, no longer loud; trembling, once again. She has understood. Logic is her own way, she knows what her T'hai'la means. She knew it since she was sucked into the "white space" that her Ashayam built. She knew - and knows, perfectly - why her Trip did this. And hers is only a rhetorical question, made to gain time. Still a bit of time. Just a bit. "What... what do you mean?"

*_Now you must be perfect, Trip. You must show all the speech ability your T'Pol taught you. All the logic she was capable of instilling inside you, more or less consciously._*

"Our only hope is hope, my love. I made a pact: me in exchange for you. If I abide by it, maybe - _maybe_ - there will be some hope also for me. After all that _**thing**_ has simply said, or hinted or whatever you want to call the way he communicates, that he accepted my challenge, not that he would have wanted to have me in your place in any case. This is hidden in the unknowable will of this being. But we cannot fight against him, we can only go along the path of tenuous hope that he seemed allowing us to go through."

"Trip…" Her face is again pressed against his chest, her tears are wetting his skin. Like his are doing with her hair.

"But if I - _we_ - do not respect the pact, there will be no hope, my Darling. This infernal being will take possession of you and me. If I win, there is hope that you will be safe, and maybe also me, although I am well aware that it is a 'maybe' terribly full of uncertainties, likely only wishful thinking. However, if I don't do what I promised to do, there will be no hope, neither for you nor for me. And we cannot think to stay here, in this artificial place of peace, forever. He will take us away from here, and we will sink back into horror again, without any hope to go out from it. He sees us, he is waiting."

"Trip..." Once again. A faint voice, in the face of truth.

*_Hold her to you, man, hold her, tightly! Perhaps ... perhaps you won't be able to do this ever again!_ *

"I must find you, in that semblance of real world where we have sunk, if we want to have some hope. There is… - *_Say it, say it man!_* - …there is no other _**logical**_ choice."

"Logical choice!" - Once again her head snaps aloft, and she looks at his face with unrestrained anger. – "Do not speak to me of logic! You don't even know what logic is!"

*_God, help me!_* - "T'Pol, please..."

"And not even that horrendous creature knows logic!"

"T'Pol..."

"Trip... oh my Trip!" - Anger fades away; there is imploration, now. She cannot lose him, she cannot! – "You know you will be lost! In any case! He needs you! You! Not me! Maybe at the beginning, but not now! Now I could be his pleasure, but you are his life! He won't let you go away! He..."

"He accepted my challenge, T'Pol."

"But he did this only out of pure malice, Ashayam. He _**IS**_ pure malice, he is wickedness. I know it very well, he was in my head! He is playing with you as the cat does with a mouse!"

"But sometimes the mouse manages to escape. Sometimes the cat lets the mouse go away."

"He won't do it! HE NEEDS YOU!"

"But there's hope that you will be free!" - Frustration, despair. - *_Oh my God, my God! Give me the right words! I must convince her! I must! I MUST! I MUST!_*

"FREE?" – Anger again, and dark desperation – "And what's the advantage of being free without you? WITHOUT YOU, MY T'HAI'LA? And then you know: it's impossible for me a life without you, literally. Actually it's not a mere fable that I may really die without you or become mad. Our Bond is..."

"It is strong, abysmally strong, I know." - *_Yeah, sure. Incredibly strong, as far as we know. It has made me able to speak like an ancient rhetorician. Even more. It has even surpassed the barriers of death. Oh… holy crap!... Indeed… It's just so! And… and if…_ _Man! Sure!_ _Perhaps... perhaps this is the way. Yes. Maybe it is this._* - He looks at her with lighted up eyes, his face is flushed. He grabs her shoulders, heatedly, with sweet force_._ - "T'Pol! That's the point! If… if this being needs me, it's possible he won't kill me, I mean my mind, my… essence, in short what the hell is inside me that makes my body something more and different from a simple mass of flesh, muscles and nerves. Maybe… maybe, who knows… I mean… I could somehow continue to exist, within the folds of a body no longer mine. This is horrible, I know, but not impossible and, in some way, it brings us some hope even for me!"

He can feel the horror that emanates from her at the thought that his fate might be this, but he can also feel the outcrop of a faint hope even in her mind, for the first time. Because she understood what lies behind his words.

*_Go ahead, Trip. This is the way._* - "I... I think it is not an empty simulacrum what that creature needs; I think he needs everything, body and mind."

He feels grow in her the tenuous shade of hope. - *_Yes, yes! This is the way. It is this!_* - "But, in this case, if you will be free, if that being will abide by his word in case I will be capable of being victorious in all the ordeals… YOU!... You… with our friends and their help… you - _**our Bond**_ – perhaps will be able to find the way to make me free too."

Her eyes widen. It's absurd, _illogical_, and frighteningly hair-raising, for more. Her T'hai'la, his soul, his essence, compelled - **inert and impotent**! - in some remote corner of a body no longer theirs. And perhaps - no, worst! - most likely... MOST LIKELY!... conscious - helplessly conscious - of everything!

**HORRENDOUSLY SCARY**!

But… but somehow… if that may be possible… maybe, in some way, he may yet live a feeble semblance of life.

And… and in this case…

It is only a faint hope, a horrible and anguishing hope, actually, but it's still a hope, after all, and there is, it exists.

How would her Ashayam say? _As long as there is life there is hope_. Not only that: he would add that there must be – always - something to hold onto. _Always._ That one cannot surrender without a fight. It is true: Humans would never do that. _Her Trip would never do that!_

Her hands go up, to his face, and tenderly take it between them. Her eyes don't leave his, while his arms hold more and more tightly her to him.

There is a_ despairing_ desire of hope in her broken voice, as she speaks.

"It is a huge, steep mountain of faint hopes, that we must climb, Trip. Very fragile, tenuous hopes."

"But they exist, Hon." - *_Oh my God, thanks! THANKS! She seems to listen to me, in the end._* - "And we cannot ignore them." - *_I beg You, I beg You. Another small effort yet!_* - "And then, my life, think about it. What hope there was that I could penetrate in the bowels of the mountain? Infinitesimal? Less than infinitesimal? Yet I've done. And what hope there was that I could oppose the will of that being? Microscopic? Virtually non-existent? Yet it happened. And what supremely little hope there was that I was able to build this mental space so that we could meet and talk and plan and hope? Neither you nor I would have believed it, if anyone had told us such a story. Yet here we are. We met. To talk. To plan. To hope."

"Trip…"

"I beseech you, my love, my life, my everything. Do not deny me the opportunity to save you and, perhaps, to save me too. Having hope is not illogical. Illogical is giving up hope."

How long can a look last of mutual understanding, a gaze of love, a look of hope, between two beings who love each other like no one else will ever do? A moment? A life? A nothing? An eternity?

Nobody knows. Maybe ... maybe the needed time. Perhaps only this can be the answer.

A kiss. Yes, still a kiss. Long, soft, sweet, poignant. Infinite.

A kiss.

Then...

She frees herself from his embrace.

She recoils slowly, staring fixedly at him.

He too is watching her intently. His face is slightly sweaty. And softly hard.

She reads very well his visage and his expression, there's any need to share thoughts: he is her Trip, her Ashayam. She is able to understand everything about him. It is passed an endless time since there were misconstructions and misunderstandings between them.

She sees and feels perfectly how he is; she is able to descry the most deep folds of his soul, as much as he attempts to hide them.

And she reads deeply inside him, reads his deadly fear.

He is afraid. Mortally. The icy grip of fear clenches his heart. He knows what expects him.

And he…

… _is ready, has no doubts: he is willing to face the most horrible of fates for hope._

**F****or her.**

_T__herefore... _

She will go back in the real world.

She will accept again that horrid presence in her mind.

And she will fight.

Yes, she will. Like him, like her Ashayam.

She will be able to maintain the tenuous thread that he has been capable of creating to unite them, to enable her to guide him to her.

And she will guide him.

And he will free her.

And he will fight again.

And again.

For her.

And he will win.

And when and if he will seem lost ... she will fight for him.

And she will save him.

* * *

"What had happened, Your Excellency? What did people see, called by the shout of the King?"

I almost give a start, in hearing Malcolm pose the question.

Definitely, the Bannerda has reached his aim, if this one was to lock our minds to his narration. Even Malcolm has put his impatience behind the need to know how things went, in that ancient night of love and death, and I don't think that's only because we must rescue Trip and T'Pol and the Bannerda's recount seems to be the key to help us.

Slowly and nearly with a sort of restrained lassitude, the old man sits down on his high chaise.

It's coming the heart of everything, I understand it very well.

For a brief moment he passes his hand over his face, as if to gather forces and ideas, then stares at us, solemnly.

And talks.

Again.

Low and seriously.

"The King was standing, vibrating with rage and fury.

He was staring, without speaking, at the man whom he held with his mighty hand.

He had put him down, so that his feet could rest again on the ground, but he was still holding his neck with terrible force. He had approached his face to his, and was staring at him.

Steadily.

Intensely.

Fixedly.

Intently.

He seemed to want to suck his soul, with his look.

He spoke, at last. It was the voice, without time and without soul, of the King. An arcane resound of ancestral fears.

'_I know you. I know who you are. I've seen you many times in __**her**__ dreams.'_

The awfully strong hand of the King shook violently the old warrior, while a rumbling of thunder seemed to resonate deep in his throat.

He approached his face even more to that one of the man, so that their visages were almost touching.

No one spoke.

Nobody moved.

Something, tremendous, was coming.

The King roared with low voice on the face of the man.

'_You think that __**she **__is dead because of me?' _

The Warrior Prince showed no signs of any reaction. No matter how strong it could be the King, he too was strong, yet did nothing to loosen the grip that was choking him.

What wanted the Demon to say?

The sparkling eyes of the King seemed to ignite with a dark flame.

'_You have to look elsewhere, measly being!' _

The King's herculean arms snapped suddenly. They raised as a twig the mighty warrior until above his leonine head ...

'_That's who caused her death!' _

... and they threw the Warrior Prince with unprecedented violence against the wall behind the great throne.

Under the astonishment of the onlookers, unable to shake themselves from the grip of inexplicable inertia which had seized them, the miserable father, the doleful Prince, came to shatter against the wall. He fell to the ground, broken and bloody, and, under the impact's impetus, a hidden mechanism was put into operation, which was, evidently, just what the king wanted. The wall opened, and revealed..."

"**What?**"

"**What?**"

We spoke with one voice, Malcolm and I.

We are completely prey to the story.

His Excellency gazes at us. "Very often I have heard reciting and I have read this legend of love and blood and death and horror. Its dramatic force always grabbed me, making me tremble with the awe that the great literary works are able to instil in their readers."

He gets up, as if unable to stay still, to find peace. "But I knew, I was persuaded at least, that it was a legendary story, that its horror was false, only concocted in order to get hold of the readers' hearts. The fascination of the horror has always been and always will be a subtle and effective means to capture the attention of readers."

His Excellency turns impetuously toward us. "But... and whether, in the light of what we now know, in the light of that thing…" - He indicates the book on the table – "… a thing we thought was legendary and that reappeared from the mists of time and myth, to witnesses to the tangible reality and truth of what is behind this legend..." - It is a look of fear - yes, fear, real and palpable - the one that His Excellency addresses to us – "…whether, in the light of all this, wasn't it an invented horror the horror of those bodies of women, torn and blood-covered, lying in an inert pile on the floor of the hidden compartment that the wall's opening had revealed?"

The Bannerda continues to stare at us, with that look mixed with fear and authority at the same time. "Whether has this been true? Whether has been real the spectacle of those feminine bodies dead in horror and in suffering? The bodies of those women - women of our race and captive in the palace of the King - of whom it's narrated that they wanted to punish the woman who, in their minds, had betrayed them together with herself and their whole breed - _our breed_ - following the sick dream of a love against nature, by killing her with the poison, as her abhorred lover was elsewhere, in the middle of the ultimate fight between us and him? Thinking that they were able to contribute in some way to the final defeat of this personification of evil, without understanding that in this way they themselves were falling prey of the evil they thought to fight, that their action was not right, but only blind revenge, fraught and bearer with evil in turn. For themselves. For us. For everyone."

It is a crescendo of pressing questions, from His Excellency, now. Rhetorical questions, because the answers are clear; and they are disturbing answers, which carry many more questions. Equally disquieting. "If were it true that we, and all those came after us, must pay at the greatest cost, the evil's contamination we fell in during that night, when we haven't been capable of repressing our bad instincts, by slaying without pity all of our enemies at the same time that a handful of women of our ilk - a ilk that should have been the torch of good - has murdered without compassion the one, the innocent female, who, to all intents and purposes, was nothing else than the first victim of an evil destiny?"

The old man bends with his torso toward us, giving more force in this way to his words. "And if were it not a mere chilling tale the appalling outcome of the action of those women? If for real their awful death, the horrendous revenge that the King took on them for what they had done, was only the first manifestation of the harsh punishment, to which the primeval power from which we, and together the King and his people, had taken origin, was condemning those who had demonstrated to be unworthy, incapable of being what they should have been?"

The old man rises up in his full height; his eyes sparkle with intense vigour, they seem wanting to pierce us; his voice bursts out powerfully from his mouth. - "And if this…" - His arm extends in a sweeping gesture, enjoining the hidden servomechanisms to perform his unspoken order. – "…were real?"

I cling to Malcolm, who holds me tightly - VERY TIGHTLY! - to him.

I watch in horror and disbelief the image that appeared in the air, in the middle of the room.

That face ... human and bestial ...

Those eyes ... those empty sockets… those hollow holes of bad...

Chilly and yet flaming ...

Drowned under those bushy eyebrows and shaggy…

That mouth, human and feral, twisted in a malevolent grin ...

Those thin lips that seem to conceal sharp fangs and deadly...

I wouldn't know how best to suggest the image of the devil.

* * *

_**Oh **__**hell! The devil another time? **_

**End of Chapter Seven**

_**TBC**_


	9. Chapter 9

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eight**

_**(The eighth, after the Prologue - The ninth, counting the Prologue)**_

* * *

_The story goes on, my friends, but the coil does not unfold. _

_Know this before you start reading. _

_And - remember - we're entering into unknown lands, the lands of the devil. _

_Yes, the devil. One more time with him._

_Thank you, my dear Linda, who wanted to support once again with your help my journey in these lands of darkness._

* * *

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**Chapter Eight**

It is a strange feeling, elusive, nebulous. It was such an endless time that He no longer felt any sensation that it is impossible for Him to define what it is. But, and this sharpens the sensation even more, it is a feeling he doesn't like.

He feels disquiet.

Exactly, disquiet. The sensation is inquietude.

It seems incredible, but it is so.

He - the King - feels disconcertment.

Why that absurd inferior creature, who has found - incredibly - the courage and strength - _the __way_ - to reach His recondite dwelling, to oppose His will, sat in that way on the simulacrum of burning sand that the technological devices controlled by His mind - His power - have created?

Of all the things that that being, that Human, could do to respond to the first ordeal, this was the most preposterous, the most unexpected.

Of course, the King was aware that the creature would have done something special and, on the other hand, it was just what he, the King, wanted.

And hoped.

It is ... yes ... it is hoped, it is desirable, it is ..._needed_, in some way, that Human to know how to deal with the ordeals, and that - _just __so_ - he may be able to go harmless through them.

Something, a sort of pensive scowl, crinkles the conscience of the King.

Although, at the bottom and without wanting to admit with full consciousness, He is aware that the creature, the Human, had managed to delay his end and to drawn out from Him, the King, some kind of an unspoken promise of possible salvation not so much for himself, but rather for the woman, by tickling His vanity and His disdain by virtue of the crazy challenge he had dared to do, it is true that the overcoming of the three tests would be the perfect proof that the creature is really the creature the King has waited for, in the infinite unconsciousness of time, so as to be back, fully and really, _**the **__**King**_.

There would have been no need to prolong the wait, to accept the absurd challenge. But... yes, apart from the malignant fun of playing with life and feelings of that creature stupidly brave and proud, after all it wouldn't have been a bad thing having the tangible proof that this one was indeed _**the**_ man, the one He has waited for, in the fogs of time and of His dormant consciousness, even if, obviously, the King knows that He is not deceiving Himself, and, even less, deluding Himself: He is the King, He doesn't suppose, He just knows. His design, conceived back in time immemorially, has come to fruition.

An indefinable shiver of evil pleasure pervades the Essence that is again and that is one step from living really again.

Nothing and no one could ever save the creature, neither him nor his woman, and it would be incomparable being able to taste her – in addition so similar to His Lil that He has to force Himself not to believe she could be her - not only by the force of His power, but also through the flesh itself of her man.

And if, for all that, while enjoying in the meantime the malicious fun of relishing the futile struggle of the man and the suffering of his woman and maybe even getting an even clearer demonstration that the man is definitely the right one, He would have to postpone a little the time of His complete triumph, of His full return, well ... this was worth it to be done.

But in any case, now the games are done, how the King, in His immense sagacity, in His superior wisdom and knowledge, had forecast and in some way planned. The hunger, with no limits and no glimmer of reason that has dominated Him for all the infinite time that He had to lead His non-existence, this hunger is now subject to His will; His power - His strength - are back and are now such to allow Him to hold out until He reaches His goal: the predation of the mind and body of the man arrived to him - unconsciously pushed by the force of his indomitable feeling for that woman, his… yes… his love - to give Him life, true life, made of mind but of body too, yes of this too; because without a body that lives, there is no real life.

Sure, the games are done, and... they cannot be done ever again.

Or now or never.

But if He is wrong...

The Thing without being, that is back to living without truly living - not yet - The One whom eras and people passed from such long a time that this cannot even be conceived, seems to shiver, inside the nothing by which it is made.

By anger, by shame, by the impotence He must bear, unable to fully being what He is, if He doesn't grasp the tenuous hope that that Human means.

And even… _and __even __by __fear_. All the fear that accompanied Him all this time and that He had been not even able to feel, so immersed in the way He was into this trap of larval non-existence in which His opponents - His opponent, the Great Monarch - had been capable of locking up Him.

Now this fear rises to the surface of the Innominable Being, from deep within Him.

He can not, must not go wrong: that man, that Human, **must** be _**the**_ man!

If it were not so, and if He were taking possession of the wrong man...

A thrill of genuine dread shakes the silty substance, the unfathomable core of the Timeless Being, who was the King and that wants to be back to be the King.

Awful, horrible, ghastly, they return in full to Him the memories of what happened, of that body, bestial, who became, perforce, His body; that He was forced to use; that was not - could not! - be able to withstand the supernal force of His essence.

And that - therefore, inevitably - became corrupted, while corrupting Him at the same time.

Making him...

* * *

"The devil!"

Malcolm's voice breaks into my ears. I know - I perceive - that his was only a whisper, but it is as if it were a thunder.

I turn towards him; I stare at him with eyes wide open. He is motionless.

_With eyes wide open. _

He is not Malcolm, the Malcolm I know - whom I love.

He is the Malcolm who mirrors my own incredulity; my astonishment.

My anguish.

My fear.

My ancestral fear of evil.

**Of the Devil!**

* * *

He had had to do it, He had had no choice, He could not do anything else.

The despair that had gripped the King in that distant time, the impotent rage, the pressing need to do something - anything - that would avoid His unimaginable falling into the void of the non-existence, His being shipwrecked into the incompleteness of nowhere, the disappearance - so unexpectedly, so absurdly, so stupidly - of all His dreams of power and domination, of the fate of almightiness that it was his - his, **his**! …

And all by the trembling hand of the insane father of Lil, of an unworthy member of the race which was His nemesis, and that after having given Him the only spark of warmth that He had ever had, had horribly deprived Him of that spark.

Of His Lil...

Everything suddenly resurfaces in the mind of the redivivus King.

With incredible strength, tearing.

* * *

"The devil?"

Malcolm and I turn to His Excellency.

He is watching us with keen eyes and curious.

He repeats. "The devil?"

I shake. Sluggishly. Almost painfully. "Excellency, I apologize ..." - I look at Malcolm, who seems almost incredulous of his exclamation, of that name that has come from his lips, then I turn back to Bannerda. – "We ... we apologize. Thinking of such things right now ..."

But I am unable to go on. And I can't not think of that demonic face that hovers behind us.

His Excellency's eyes continue to stare at us, curious, inquisitive; as if, as if...

I do not know, I do not understand, but I can not stop myself.

I speak, almost against my will. But I speak. In a very low voice.

"That face, Your Excellency ... that face looks ..." - I sigh, forcibly – "...that face _**is**_ the face of the devil."

* * *

What had he become? **What ****had ****he ****become?**

He! The great, the mighty, the shining, the gleaming, the most beautiful...

What had he become? WHAT HAD HE BECOME!

* * *

"The devil is evil, Your Excellency."

I jump at the voice of Malcolm. It resounds grim and unexpected.

And gloomy.

And... scared.

"As the King of whom you are telling us."

Malcolm's voice lowers. Becomes a whisper.

"And has that face. The face of the King."

* * *

A monster. Mad and horrible.

A monster.

Disgusting and unhealthy.

That Lil could never love...

* * *

"The evil."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"As the King."

"Yes."

"And. .. with his horrible face."

"Yes, Your Excellency. Not everyone believes in his existence, even though for many he is a dogma of faith. But ..."

"But evil exists, does not it, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, it exists, Your Excellency. And, if it has a face, surely that's its face. As hideous as it was once beautiful."

His Excellency boggles. Yes, just so, he boggles! He opens wide those eyes he has, which seem being gaped into the abyss of time.

And now I know that this is true, I understand the discomfort that I have always felt in front of him, in front of the members of this race that has seen ... that has seen the dawn of creation.

But his Excellency, so far as old and lived he can be, boggles at the words of my Malcolm.

I ... I hug my Mal. I'm afraid. **I'm ****afraid!** And I want to feel his protective body against mine! I do not care a fig for the label and duty!

I want the reassuring warmth of my Mal!

Because ... because ... I ... I do not know ... but ... I do not like those alien eyes open wide in surprise! I do not like them!

* * *

One moment, just a moment. There had been no more time. He could not disappear in that way, into the nothing.

And under the powerful pressure of the ubiquitous and hidden biomechanical servo-systems just created by Him in order to preserve His essence in any way, at any cost, under any circumstances...

He had acted.

* * *

"What does it mean '_As __hideous __as __it __was __once __beautiful.__'_ ? What do you want to mean with these words, Lieutenant?

I see the surprise painted on Mal's face; he is dumbfounded. Like me, on the other hand. Why this strange question from His Excellency? Why this urgency in his tone? Right now? And why that expression... that look on his visage, almost… – yes, that's the word – almost appalled? The visage of a Being able to control every facial muscle, like and more than the Vulcans, able to maintain control of himself and situations as not even T'Pol would know how to do, not even ... not even Soval.

With uncertain making, unsure of what I'm doing and with in the heart the fear that we are wasting time behind vain things, but at the same time feeling that perhaps we are not at all talking about vain things, I take the floor. Let's come down to it, dammit! Let's stop playing with the facts and the words!

"He was once one of those Superior Beings we call angels, marvellous and supernal creatures of light, the first Thinking Beings got out from the hand of The Creator. He was the greatest, the most beautiful of angels. Then ... he became corrupted. In mind and in appearance. And he became the devil."

His Excellency stares at us, he doesn't stop watching us with eyes full of ... I do not think you can define what is in his eyes than with 'astonishment'.

Finally he speaks. And he seems to be in difficulty in expressing himself.

"You have a myth ..."

"Your Excellency, many of us would find blasphemous your words. For many - really many - the devil is not a myth."

His Excellency does not seem to give the slightest weight to the words of Mal, far from being covertly rebuking. Also does look not even annoyed, rather he appears impatient.

"Lieutenant, please, not even the King, it seems, is a myth." - His hand snaps forward, indicating the malignant and horrendous face that seems to mock us, as if it were not a mere three-dimensional image, as if it were animated by an unknown kind of malevolent life, of sardonic and baleful consciousness. - "And it wasn't surely that unclean being, the one the hapless Lil fell in love with."

The old, vigorous Bannerda rises in all his tall stature. He ... he inspires awe. I cling even more to Malcolm. It seems that the depths themselves of time speak with the voice of the Lord of Bannerdas.

"The one whom Lil met in the room where she lay in chains in a painful waiting for her fate, the one who silenced her woeful father, the one against whom our people fought since time immemorial, it was a marvellous and powerful creature, a majestic King Warrior, reverberating with a feral, tenebrous light."

Those timeless eyes alight upon us.

They seem to dig into you.

"And, as in your myth" - his voice lowers until a pensive whisper - "or as in your truth, if you prefer, so in our myth, which is no longer a myth, on that fateful night in which it was decided the fate of our - and your - world, the corruption of the body and mind took possession of the King."

The Bannerda stops for a brief moment, lowering his eyes, open into a past without time. And, most likely, also in the future itself of the universe.

Then he raises them. He gazes at us, scrutinizes us.

"And the King became..."

It is my voice the one who gets up in the air, tremulous and disbelieving, completing the sentence of His Excellency, giving body to the inexpressible that stirs deep within us all.

"The devil."

* * *

… _And He had become…_

He had seen Himself in the mind of that Being, of that human.

He had seen His own infamous appearance, His own horrendous visage. He had smelled His own stinking breath, His bestial stench.

He had felt the fear of Himself in the mind and soul of the man; soothed, diluted in the patina of his civilization, but still very present, palpable.

The King had seen Himself in the mind of the man.

He had seen what He had become.

What Humans call...

A laugh, satanic, without substance. Sombrely and forcedly self-derisive.

A word, without sound.

A name.

_The devil._

* * *

"It is clear that behind all this, behind all that is happening, there are lots of things that we are unable to understand; most likely, from what I can infer and on the basis of some facts I have yet to tell you, there must be something, or rather someone, who is knowing, who is acting _or __has __acted __or __will __act_, with a definite intention, someone who knows the past and, we have to think, even the future, as far as this can resound hardly believable and somewhat _scary_. The enigma itself, concealed behind the double way of reading of the planet's coordinates, the enigma of its double language, of the impossibility per se of this fact, are the clearer proof of what I am stating."

His Excellency stops speaking for an instant. I know, I feel, what he is about to say.

He resumes, in a deep voice. "May be it a mere coincidence that you, just you Humans, be those whom we wanted to use to explore the causes and origins of the signal originated on that planet, from the bowels of that mountain?"

His tone becomes even deeper. "May be it a mere coincidence that, irrespective of the fact he may be true or a myth, your tradition talks of a Being, what you call the devil, that has the form, perhaps the very essence of what the King became in that fateful night? And that, both for us and for you, this creature was once great and beautiful and that he became what he is because he became corrupted in mind and body, regardless of the issue that for us he was the evil's essence even before his transformation, whereas for you, as far as I can understand, he was not wicked at that time? And, if I have to follow my ideas and suspicions until the bottom, there can be solid reasons for such a fact."

His eyes become two chinks. He crosses his arms on his chest. He talks again, almost without looking at us, as if he were speaking to himself, if he were seeking the truth within the things, the hidden meaning of everything. "And, may it be a mere coincidence that it has been the Vulcan woman the one who has set everything in motion, your First Officer, T'Pol? She was sucked into the vortex as first, and she has inevitably carried with her your Engineer, that Charles Tucker, whose relationship with her clearly can not be denied by anyone, even if none of you has mentioned it at all."

The words of His Excellency bring ruthlessly to light all what, more or less unconsciously, stirs within me, and I am sure, even within Malcolm.

The Devil ... the devil of us Humans ... where ... where it came from? True or invented he may be, can his origin be so ancient as to be more ancient than ourselves?

But how is this possible?

How is it ...

And all of a sudden ... I ... I ...

The... the devil is much more ancient than us! He comes from far away! From a past that was long before us! He ..

I do not dare ... I do not dare give accomplished substance to the misty thought that penetrates, suddenly, my mind.

But this thought, it exists!

The devil is the big loser, but never really cut down and always resurgent, of an eons-long war, fought between the two opposing armies of the angels, faithful to the ideal of the good, and the angels who betrayed this ideal ...

A war that took place long, very long before we - all of us - saw the light ...

_As ... As the war between the Bannerdas... and the King!_

_Oshi! Stop it! Stop it! This is ... it is illogical, absurd! _

O. .. or maybe not? Those who believe the existence of the devil, could they really feel betrayed in their beliefs, or offended, if someone had told them - had shown them! - that they are right? That - objectively, historically! - the devil ... is true?

And T'Pol? The Bannerda is saying it can not be a mere coincidence that she was kidnapped, or rather, that only she was kidnapped, just as, indeed, I myself had supposed, albeit at the limit of clear awareness.

But what sort of explanation could such a fact have? May it be possible that T'Pol is somehow connected with that Lil, who, apparently, was the fuse that ignited the fire, the engine of everything?

But this is really absurd, pathetically absurd, even more than all that is happening. Or, once again, not? To tell truth, it is as if we were getting used to the absurd, as if we were losing the perception of reality, to the point not to find absurd what His Excellency is telling us and the fact itself that he is telling us that there could be someone pulling the strings of all, someone aware of the past and of the future, even. And in this case, if the absurd is now become our life meter, so why should we find this absurd, more than everything that is happening to us, the fact that T'Pol is linked to that woman, Lil, who lived and died for love in a time infinitely far away?

Perhaps this could be the only light of logic, as T'Pol herself would say, in the absurdity of this whole story; perhaps, despite all the senselessness that such an idea can have inside, it could explain many things the fact that T'Pol can be...

"Why just your Vulcan colleague and friend, why T'Pol? _**Who **__**is **__**she, **__**really?**_"

I start at this question in unison with Malcolm, a question that gives loud voice to our thoughts. His Excellency goes on, ignoring our patent discomfort.

"A _Human_ Man and a _Vulcan_ Female. No, this can not be coincidence."

I find myself watching the Bannerda, who now is staring fixedly at us, with such intensity that my eyes water. The echo of his last words resounds in my head. It didn't get unnoticed by me the way he emphasized that _Human_ and that _Vulcan_. I feel Mal's hand hold mine.

"A man, member of the race that has this… devil in its traditions or its beliefs or whatever you want they have to be called, tied – in love with and EVIDENTLY loved in return – to a woman, member of a race whose appearance is…"

A pause. Brief, meaningful, tense.

"_A __woman __whose __appearance __is__…_"

The Bannerda stops again, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he takes a long breath and finally… "We are old, my friends, incredibly ancient. By now I believe that you have assimilated - digested, as you would say in the colourful way you are in the habit of expressing yourself - this fact. So, I think that you can also understand that such an ancient breed can not ... not have children."

Our heads snap. Our attention to what the His Excellency is saying sharpens at the higher degree.

Mal and I look sideways at each other for a moment.

We're to the point.

"We now live virtually in isolation, certainly, but it was not always so and, in any case, in the infinite time that has passed since we saw the light, it was not possible, was unthinkable that our seed didn't spread."

The Bannerda stops one more time, very briefly, looking at us. He wants to be absolutely certain that what he is about to tell us will be well understood and interiorized.

"Look at me, Lieutenant, look at me, Ensign. Now, that you know really who I am, don't you seem to find in me something of yourself? And maybe also something of many of the breeds that populate this universe?"

It's true. It's true for God's sake! How come no one noticed it before? That colour azure, almost blue, of the skin ... like the skin of the Andorians. Those facial features so similar to ours, so human, except that for that mouth so wide and mobile, reminiscent of Denobulans...

I almost have difficulty breathing. Yes, the Bannerda speaks rightly. His words have the sound of truth. Sharply, he pivots on his heels, by turning his back to us and folding his hands behind it, _as __would __a __Vulcan_. He speaks to us, without turning, as if he would avoid direct eye contact_, __how __would __a __Vulcan __wanting __to __avoid __showing __his __embarrassment_. Who knows if he is raising an eyebrow, at this time?

"Not even we know what races that now populate the universe should be considered a little our children and what not, but certainly in many of them there are our genes. And our characters."

He turns. He looks at us. Intensely. His eyebrow - thin, well-arched, like that of T'Pol - is really relieved.

"And our memories."

His gaze becomes even more intense.

"Our ancestral memories, imprinted in our genes, as in those of our children."

He looks at us, stares at us, scans us, studies us.

"As the memory of a powerful Being who degenerated in body and mind and who became...

I interrupt once again the Bannerda.

Once again it emerges that name on my lips. In a faint whisper.

"The devil."

* * *

The devil.

He had seen this devil, in the man's mind.

He had seen… Himself.

It was just Him. The King. Or rather, what He had become on that night that had affected Him forever.

And that man, that ... Trip ... this was clearly imprinted in his mind, timeless memory that came from a timeless past.

The man belongs to a race which has kept inside the memory of what had happened, albeit distorted in the mist of aeons.

And all this couldn't not have any meaning.

It couldn't not mean that this man was special.

That he was _**the**_ man.

But... angrily, He could not deny it ... He had been afraid. What would have happened if, once again, He had seized the wrong body?

And so ... yes ... so He had taken advantage of the crazy challenge thrown to Him by the man, and had delayed the final taking. He had opted for a further test, more reassuring, and the mad audacity of the man, His own desire to trim down the defiant bravado of the Human, were nothing more than a pretext.

He knew He had no more choice by now. At the heart of His born-again subconscious, He knew it.

He would take this man, whatever was the outcome of the ordeals.

But, after all, if the ordeals had been overcome, He would take the man with more confidence to do the right thing.

And - the sardonic satanic smile without makes again its own road into the essence without a substance – the King, in so doing, would also shown to the Human that, after all, he was quite right: it would be the latest satisfaction of the man the full awareness, acquired on the field, that, for real, one can not trust the devil.

* * *

I release my Hoshi. Enough, once again enough. It's time to stop. I do some step forwards, frowning. I want to know everything and want to act, at last.

"Excellence ..."

It is as if I had not spoken.

The Bannerda watches me, almost as if he isn't seeing me, and talks about picking up the thread of what he was saying, regardless of my eager impatience.

"And, as the memories, the genes can also keep track of disappeared physical characters. Disappeared in us, because we can not escape, neither we want to, the constant work of evolution, but reappeared and present in some of our children. Maybe not too much important physical characteristics, but someway significant."

The Bannerda makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

The diabolic image disappears.

His Excellency looks at us, almost smiling.

"We are conscious of many of the transformations we have suffered over time, at least of ... Well, yes ... the most recent. We also have many images depicting Lil. Pictures of how she would have been."

Another gesture. A picture starts being sketched. Slowly.

"We knew all of you just by reputation, we had ever seen none of you in person, only your captain was known in his features. You know" - a smile, strained – "we fear that we may be defined by you what you call _rather __unsociable __persons_. We have known you in your appearance only now and before we hadn't had any need to make any comparison."

The Bannerda goes silent a moment, almost scowling.

Then…

"But now ..."

A nod. The image takes a definite shape.

"I introduce to you... Lil."

T'Pol, splendid and regal, is watching us.

* * *

**End of Chapter height.**

**TBC**

_Well for Bacchus! Or, rather, for the devil! I did warn you, my friends. _

_However, fear not. I will try to guide you with a sure hand, I will bring you out from the lands of the devil. _

_At least I hope so!_

_And if you still want to read what follows, I will tell you what the devil happened to the King that night of devil. _

_Yes, I will do! For the horns of the devil!_


	10. Chapter 10

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Ninth**

_**(The ninth, after the Prologue - The tenth, counting the Prologue)**_

* * *

_Once again, even if slowly (please, forgive me) the story goes on, my friends, and little by little the whole scenario gets shown, but we are yet far from being able to know all of it; lots of things are to be revealed and comprehended. Be patient, please._

_So let me see. We were talking of the devil, right? Oh yeah, because, apparently, this damn (it is appropriate to say) 'King of the Mountain' seems to have much, very much to do with the lord of Hell._

_Okay, a tiny query, then. In your opinion, of what colour is devil's blood?_

"_Hey, Asso. What the **devil** do you mean?"_

_One moment, one moment please. Read and you will understand, my friends. For the moment let me just say that it seems it comes to a matter far from irrelevant. _

_And, by talking of not irrelevant things… one more time thank you, my dear Linda. The lands of darkness we are walking through, can have a little light in grace of the help you gave and give me._.

* * *

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**Chapter Ninth**

I feel Mal's hand grasping mine.

I can not detach my eyes from the eyes of the living image that stands out, floating in the bright air of the room.

I can not detach my eyes from those large eyes and liquid that seem to look from a distance and a time infinite.

Lil's eyes.

_T'Pol's eyes._

"The time had come."

The voice of the Sire of Bannerdas shakes me violently.

I turn swiftly, dragged out suddenly from my dumb wonder, and I watch him. He has the face congested, inflamed in blue; is altered, vehement, in the features and manners; his voice appeared as vehement.

He is unrecognizable. Mal stands between me and him.

He speaks again, crossing his arms on his chest, seeming to struggle to contain an agitation hard to be controlled. His abnormal squeaky tone betrays his inner fight.

"Before the Great Monarch once stood the horrible spectacle of the inert bodies, piled up and bleeding, of the women dead by the hand of the Dark Sire.

On the marble altar it lay, the inert body and lifeless of Lil, the woman of his race, who a demonic love and insane had pushed into the arms of the Grand Enemy and who had died by the fratricidal hands and vengeful of her sisters by breed.

On the floor, against the wall, lay the inert body, still beating with the last tremors of a life incapable of pretending to be won, of the most noble of his Warrior Princes, of the doleful father of Lil.

And in front of him... still strong, proud, powerful ... maybe – hopefully - on the verge to be won, at last, but alive yet, and mortally dangerous... mad with crazy wrath and cruel ... **He** ... the cause of everything.

Of all evil.

_Of every evil_.

The King."

The gaze of His Excellency envelops us with impalpable anger, and rage, and violence.

He repeats - and relives - the anger, rage and violence that had had to stir, at such times, in the Great Monarch. His voice, his words, are those of that Grand Sovereign, of his... precursor. In them resounds the finally freed wrath and livid, exploding at last with a violence impossible to restrain, of his great ancestor.

"The Grand Monarch turned his eyes to the monster in human form that stood before him.

The two Great Adversaries stared at one another, for the first time the one in the presence of the other.

For the first time.

And for the last.

Because there wouldn't be another time.

Never again.

It wouldn't have been possible to see them together one more time.

Because the time had come.

Our Great King, moved slowly.

He advanced gravely towards the Great Enemy.

He did not speak, no sound flowed from his clenched lips.

Now the word would be of his sword, glittering, coruscant, in his hand.

Everything was still, around.

Friends and enemies.

Beasts and warriors.

No man breathed.

No Ghoul growled.

Not a weapon acted.

All were silent and motionless; all watched.

All aware, beasts and warriors, that _the time had come_."

His Excellency stops his story. Seems to have regained his usual calmness, his confidence. He looks at us thoughtfully before speaking again.

"How many times, my friends - let me call you so - I saw this scene represented in our theatres. How many writers, dramatists have ventured in the transposition onto the stage of the mighty power of this our ancient ... - A wry smile curls over the face of his Excellency - … of this our ancient legend. How many writers and poets have tried to infuse the blood of their creative flair into this story, this saga of love and death that for us is ... - Another pause, again a smile, derisively ironic; toward himself; nearly of self-pity, for himself and for his countrymen - …or should I say 'that _**was**_ for us', the mythical transfiguration of our history, of the most recent part of our history, of the whys and the wherefores we are now here, far away from where we are born and came from, by cause of that night and... in the fear of a night darker than that."

The old Bannerda, solemn, turns around, restless, walks away, giving us his back, then turns again and lifts up sadly his eyes at us. He seems as fatigued. His expression is… I don't know… It seems as if he had a look of contrition in his eyes, of… of mute apology, like he was searching to be forgiven. It seems to me that this is the right word. Forgiven. For what? Why?

"Why is this absurd old legend still so alive in the hearts and minds of our people? Why have so many wits wanted to rewrite it and make it relive in so many ways in our texts and our poems? Why is it such a powerful emotion, one that so inspires us that it compels us almost to hold our breath, just by hearing about it? Irrationally, illogically, as if we were a race still in diapers, prey to fantastic beliefs, unable to find answers to the phenomena of the real world except in the lively fancy of our imagination. Why are we - we, so ancient, so full of antique wisdom, so logical and cunning - unable not to shiver, maybe ... possibly by fear and ... by fault, when, incapable of resisting its siren call, we dive - again and again and again - into the timeless pages that tell of what happened that fateful night?"

The eyes of His Excellency are like two imps without peace. They stare at us and immediately after they avoid us; they search us and immediately after they escape us.

At last, they rest on us.

"Why?"

The old Bannerda hissed out that 'why'. Vehemently. Violently. Angrily.

"Excellence ..."

"Excellence ..."

Malcolm and I talk together, simultaneously, excitedly, trying to bring back to his calm composure, our interlocutor. And trying to bring a bit of calm composure even to us. Because, now, we begin to understand. Because ...

"Because, as I said, as it's now patent, it is not a legend; and because…"

The words, choked, His Excellence said in a low voice and yet sounding as shouted, whip us, bring to full light what, now, we both think of perceiving - and of fearing - is laying inside his such long and contorted approach to the core of the whole issue.

"And because, my friends, my… _my children_, the faults of which we are flicked with through that night, by slaughtering mercilessly our enemies, falling in the same wickedness of which those ones were the standard-bearers; the faults with which our women have soiled their hands, by murdering Lil with pitiless vindictiveness; the faults of the Grand Monarch himself, for what that night he didn't succeed in accomplishing to the full; and the faults, yes, even those of Lil's father, for what, on the contrary, he, in dying, ended up doing; and perhaps, who knows?, even the faults themselves of Lil, who, as far as Love is a force nobody can thwart, hadn't been capable of not yielding to the recall of the haunting attractiveness of evil and had become the origin and... - a look, swift and meaningful, at the image of Lil-T'Pol - …yes, now it's clear, the end of everything…"

Now the Bannerda's eyes show inside something that sounds definitely like a shadow of guilt.

"These faults are all true, and now ..."

"And now, Sir?"

I have spoken, almost unconsciously. And now I expect an answer I already know.

"And now these faults are yours."

"Ours!"

I turn to Malcolm, on hearing that word he said, like a reverberation of the last one of the Bannerda. Mal has said it as to try to understand, or rather to convince himself. But he doesn't need it, in reality. Even he has understood. Even he knows.

"And you, you, who are our children… _**you**_ are now forced to pay the penalty."

I take a few steps forward, toward His Excellence, while the echo of the last words he said goes off, heavy, in the air.

Yes, now I understand, and also my Mal, I know. The outlines of the whole are finally sufficiently delineated, although still the exact substance, the content, appear confused and although not yet we know the precise reasons why the two of us are here. But I'm starting to get quite clear ideas, even in this regard.

I no longer feel the absurdity and unreality of what is happening to us. Maybe I ended up getting used, or perhaps, quite simply, I began to realize that there is nothing absurd or unreal about all this. Sure, we're talking about facts, things are being revealed to us, that seem absurd and unreal, but in reality they are not at all. Absurd and unreal it is the way these things, these facts, have come to us, hidden in the pages of a text of legend, and the way, still not understandable, by means of which it was dug up from the darkness it was laying in, and taken back to the Bannerdas and… to us. But these things are not absurd or unreal, they are true and real, have really happened, even if they are told in the manner and terms of myth. And now their impact, not at all absurd or unreal, has fallen upon us. Because of faults ... which now are ours.

Ours. Yeah. Ours. Sure, it is so, if it is true, as it is true, as it is now clear, that it seems that we are about to give rational body and substance to the confused irrationality of our myths, or rather, of our beliefs, simple tales for some people, and matters of dogma and faith for others, but in any case far from the rationality of the real story. Maybe, or, rather, almost certainly, we, now, are going to turn into real history what lays behind the history, ie the shapeless magma which moves behind it and that somehow is nothing else than the transfiguration, through the fantastic elaboration, of that part of history too remote in the time in order to be remembered, and narrated, in its true essence, in its logical and tangible reality. In other words, as true history.

A history that, as it appears, is older, much older than us ourselves, and in which are sunk the roots of what we are.

The roots of our faults.

Faults of which we must ...

My thoughts become words.

"We must pay the price of sins which are ours because we are you, it is not so, Your Excellency?"

His Excellency nods, with heavy solemnity.

"You, all of you, humanoid species that populate the universe are part of us and, actually, there's a lot of us even in the non-humanoid species come to light after us, because, although not directly genetically associated with us, they are still derived from the primal force of which we and ... the others have been the first model which has been formed, a model which, of course, was at the beginning very different from that which exists now, currently incredibly diversified into a myriad of species. But, overall, this model continues today, even ... even if a part of the model fell along the way because..."

"Because one of the two components of the model, the one, so to speak, good, decided to take out the other component, the one, again so to speak, bad, thus becoming bad in its turn and tarnishing itself in this way by faults that have a price to pay, a price that must be paid or by them or ..."

"Or by those who have inherited these faults, because they have inherited ourselves. Because they are now, what we were."

No, it is not absurd, all this. But how I wish it were!

"Namely, we, Your Excellence, isn't it?"

"No, Hoshi."

Mal's voice rises strong. I turn and look at him blankly. His look is tense and intent.

"I don't think things are exactly in this way. That's only partially true."

I blink my eyelids, trying to understand what he means, but I'm unable. Not His Excellency, though. Apparently he has understood. "You're right, Mr. Reed." It seems to me to perceive some kind of held back amazement, in his voice, and - I don't think I am mistaken - also of respect.

My eyes run from one to another, puzzled.

"Hoshi..."

Malcolm stares at me attentively, while I focus on him, tensed in the attempt to comprehend.

"...Hoshi, it is T'Pol the one who was kidnapped, it is T'Pol the one who has carried with herself Trip. Why just her? And why was it her the only woman in our away mission? I remember getting asked these questions while we all tried to gain the escape route through that forest of nightmares. I do not know why these questions came to my mind and I had no answers in those moments, but now I know, now I have the answers. Do you remember, Hoshi? Initially T'Pol should not be part of the mission, it was her who insisted she be part of it, to be with Trip. Obvious, logical and perfectly understandable, no doubt about that, and T'Pol was able to present all her reasons with the iron logic she is capable of using. But maybe, indeed without maybe, there could have been something else that pushed her to do so, in addition to her love for her Mate. His Excellency, speaking of that impossible indication on the book, made us believe that there's someone behind all this, that someone, unknown, has manoeuvred in the dark, and you were in agreement with him; indeed I suspect my and your presence here has something to do with that. So, to bring things to the extreme consequences, why shouldn't we think that perhaps T'Pol's love for her man was the lever on which this someone had planned to make her be part of the mission, a lever this someone knew he could count on?"

My Mal takes a pause, short and tense. He digs his eyes into mine. "Hoshi, maybe, or rather without maybe, T'Pol had to go to that planet, to meet her destiny. To…"

There's a look in Malcolm's eyes I haven't ever seen in them before. His words are as stones he throws into me.

"…to pay the price."

I cannot restrain myself. Because... because I don't want to be sucked so totally into the eddy which is engulfing us, even if I am now perfectly aware that we are talking of true things and real, grievous of awful consequences. I try to deny the true, I almost shout. "Mal, what are you saying? Don't you realize how absurd your statement is? Where has your British rationality gone? How can you speak so imaginatively? You, just you?"

"Hoshi!" - With determination, strongly. I know... my God!... I know he is right! – "It is T'Pol who has the features of Lil. T'Pol. The _**Vulcan**_ T'Pol."

"But Malcolm, this is not a fantasy movie! This is the reality! It is impossible that ..."

"Exactly, Hoshi. This is the reality. And I would not be the rational British man you say that I am, if I were stubbornly balking in denying this reality, as it may seem unreal and fantastic, otherwise I - and you - could not help but surrender to it without being able to do anything. If you want to fight with any hope of winning, you must know and recognize what you must fight against, irrespective of how it may be absurd or unreal, or perhaps only apparently absurd and unreal. And… _and also ugly and really hard to swallow_. There is logic in all this. It is a logic hard to accept and follow, but it is the only logic we can resort to, to try to explain what is happening and then to find a solution, if... there's one. So the logic equation is: T'Pol is Lil, T'Pol is Vulcan, and, as she is Lil and as she is Vulcan, she must pay the price."

I become struck dumb. What can I say? Then, suddenly, I realize fully what lies behind the words of Malcolm, and why he stressed so strongly the term 'Vulcan'.

I turn precipitately to the Bannerda.

"Excellence, the Vulcans are your most direct heirs, is that not true? It is in them that it has been transposed to the maximum your genetic heritage, your racial memory; it is in them that it has been transposed your faults, it is they who must pay their price, is not it? Is it true what Mister Reed means to say?"

"Ensign…"

I can see it clearly, there is embarrassment in the eyes of the Bannerda. But why?

"But then, Your Excellency, why did you say that your sins are our sins? Why did you say we are now forced to pay the penalty for sins which have been yours and which now are ours? It's the Vulcans who are the true depositaries of your ancestral memories, of your sins. We, we Humans, we also share a more or less great part of your genetic heritage, sure, now that's clear; but we are not, if it's true what Malcolm said, the heirs of your sins. We have no sins to be paid, we ..." - I stop abruptly. An idea, sudden, appeared in my mind. I open wide my eyes, while the truth makes its way into me, while it resounds, strongly hurting and badly, what Malcolm said, by referring to a reality '_ugly and really hard to swallow_'. - "Unless there are faults and faults, namely different types of sins to atone, and in different ways, depending on who has inherited these different types of sins, and… _and from whom these have been inherited_. Right, Malcolm? Right Your Excellency? Unless, to be clear, we, we Humans I mean, are your heirs, yes, but only partially, and in reality we... we are mostly the heirs of ..."

I can not continue. I can not say what I began to think, it's too horrible the idea that struck me, the idea that we Humans can be one with this… _just with this side of the eternal fight between good and evil_.

But Malcolm is merciless. He never shies from reality. He confronts it. I love him for that. But sometimes I may hate him!

I close my eyes, while he forces me pitilessly, with his deep voice, to watch up at the bottom inside me the monster that has disclosed its visage to me.

"Yeah, Hoshi. I believe that it can not pass unnoticed the fact that it's us, us Humans precisely, who have in our traditions, or in our myths, or in our faiths, no matter where, the devil, that's to say, as it seems, this damned King. It is not the Vulcans, and, to my knowledge, no other humanoid race that we know. Maybe ... no other race in absolute, humanoid or not humanoid. Am I wrong, Your Excellency?"

"Lieutenant…"

"_Am I wrong, Excellency?_"

"No."

"No?"

"No, Mister Reed. You… are right."

"So, why us, just we Humans, and no other breed, not even the Vulcans who, as it seems, are the spitting image of what the Bannerdas are, no, better, were… The Bannerdas, I say, viz... sure, we have to believe so ... viz the bright side of the Universe... The Bannerdas, who… yeah, that's something we should think about… who have a past, lost in the time, of terrible wars, of bloody fights, just as the Vulcans, who, in their past, maybe a past much farther than they themselves think, nearly have destroyed themselves, before that Surak, a noble figure exactly as it had to be the Great Monarch, has been able to give them a peaceful stability, exactly as, I guess, it has been able to do the Great Monarch for the Bannerdas…"

Malcolm pauses abruptly, looking as stunned by what he himself has said and that it's true, though, and whose deep meaning I, myself am trying to grab and digest.

Then, he recovers and ends his question. A rhetorical question, that I already know.

"… Why should we preserve the memory of the devil, namely the King, if not because..."

"Malcolm! Please!"

"We must face reality, horrible as it can be and tough, Hoshi. Perhaps, in doing so, we can nourish some hope to change it, at this point not only to steal T'Pol to her fate, but especially ... yes, especially Trip, in a certain way, and ultimately ourselves as well and ... possibly somehow all Humans, if what we now have to acknowledge and admit is true. And it is true, isn't it, Excellency?"

"Lieutenant, in effect, judging from what is given us to know and observe and based on the recent events and their dynamics, and on an accurate examination of the data now we have at disposal, it has to believe that, in regard to you Humans and to the Vulcans, with all logic, things stay in the way you, if I interpret exactly your mind, are thinking they stay."

I can not help but blurt out and hire a highly sarcastic tone. - "I can believe it, your Excellency!"

And besides, why should I express myself differently? If it's true that I am who Malcolm has just said that I, and he, and all Humans are? Sure! Of course! Perforce, by God! Or should I say, by the devil? Maybe ... perhaps it would be most suitable for me! For the breed I belong to!

My sarcastic tone gets accentuated, and it serves no purpose the forlorn severity Malcolm looks at me with. "In fact only a Vulcan could talk and express himself in the way you have just expressed yourself, Excellency, and say everything without saying anything, just like you did! Certainly, there can be no doubt that the Vulcans are your most direct heirs, but..."

I go suddenly deflated. My tone changes. I feel that my voice trembles. I don't want yet to face the obvious. I want to ... I must know! Genuinely and for real. I want to touch with my hand, and see with my eyes.

I turn to the Bannerda with resolute doing, locking deep down the turmoil I feel, but I take things to far. I prefer to approach by degrees a truth that, once revealed, can not be rejected, as much as hurting and mortifying it can be. "Excellency, how were those others, those who saw the dawn of the universe together with you?"

The Bannerda looks at me intensely, without responding.

I continue, undaunted and together timorous.

"I mean, they shouldn't have been much different from you, if a woman of your race could fall in love with one of them, indeed even of their King, who - you yourself have affirmed this – should have been glittering by a dark beauty and puissant. Certainly, love knows no races or barriers, but frankly I find it hard to believe that two breeds physically and psychologically very different from one another can find a meeting point so extreme as love."

His Excellency shows no signs to want to respond.

I insist.

Slowly, I approach the core.

"Were they different and yet similar like..."

"Like you and the Vulcans?"

I jolt at the question made so directly and transparently by His Excellency.

I try to react.

"Excellency ..."

The Bannerda stops me with a quiet gesture of his hand.

There's something strange in his eyes. There is sweetness and sadness, and something like understanding.

"We and the others, our legends say, were basically very similar. But maybe it's time we stop speaking of legends. Before I spoke of 'model'. I think that this comparison may be useful to further clarify, it's enough make it a little more precise. After that we realized, as a result of the recent events, that the King and his damned race were - and are - anything but fables, we have developed a theory, which, after all, can be more than satisfactory, although maybe should be better specified. We could say that our two species were as the two models of the same prototype and that the Primal Artificer, provided that there is, had not quite decided, if you allow me to borrow one of your expressions, what was the one on which He should bet. We frankly do not believe that a Superior Entity, provided that it exists, may side with one of its creations; there is no evil or good in the scenario of creation, in our opinion. What there is, it's the affirmation of the different and various species according to the laws of selection. Therefore, regardless of whether those others, according to our yardstick of judgement, could appear and _**be**_ evil, we, ultimately, could not but oppose them and compete with them, on pain of our loss and the consequent triumph of evil, or, rather, of what for us and, of course, according to the common sense, for virtually everyone, is evil, but that was not so for those others, because they were made like that. In any case, to the laws of selection it mattered little how we and they were. Simply, we both had been thrown into the arena of evolution and the differences between the two models of the same prototype brought with them the inevitable consequence that, although our nature could make it so that we could have not any objection to coexist more or less peacefully with our competitors, for these ones, however, it couldn't be conceivable anything else but the prevarication towards us. Hence the fight, the long fight to succeed and not be overwhelmed, a fight lasted for an immeasurable time and thereby inevitably transformed by the lens of myth. At least until now. In any case one thing is certain: we must understand that the myth that has always accompanied us, is not a myth and this myth-not-myth says that we and those others were very similar to each other, and not only physically, because if a being like the King could experience something very similar to love and we have fallen into the same horrible behaviours of which he and his race are stained, there had to be even psychologically some points of meeting."

"As between us and the Vulcans."

The old Bannerda takes a deep breath, as he gains slowly a seat. He looks fatigued. Yes, I think it costs a lot of fatigue to say what he has to say.

"You and Vulcans have always been fascinating for us. No race, among the existing ones, is so similar to us as your two races. In particular, the Vulcans are really very, very similar to us, to the point that, as you can see, some of our ancestral features have reappeared in them, evidently in grace of the genes they inherited from us. And they are similar to us not only outwardly; for example, their blood is green such as ours."

I jump. "And how was the blood of your opponents? How was the blood of the King?"

The Bannerda casts at me a blank glance. Continues, without answering directly. He too, takes things to far.

"But I must say that we are particularly fascinated by you Humans. You too are very similar to us, as you are similar to Vulcans, but you are also very different. You are logical, like us and like the Vulcans, when and if you want, but you are also impulsive, to the point of being not infrequently inconsiderate. In fact, I can not deny that this strange mixture of adventurous spirit and reasoning ability was one of the reasons that led us to believe that the idea, suggested by some of us, not part of the government staff, to turn to you to find out what was going on that planet, should have been to be followed."

"Some of you? There were people, among you, who have taken the trouble to suggest to you and your staff this idea? Hasn't it been a decision that came from you or your staff?"

I turn around, disoriented, toward Malcolm. What the hell's the matter? What does this mean, this strange and unexpected egress on his part? He makes a gesture as if to say _'let it be, unimportant things, it does not matter_', and speaks with nonchalance. "Forget it and continue, Your Excellency, please."

The Bannerda too, he looks at Malcolm quizzically, however resumes to speak, without raising questions.

"It was not an easy decision to make. There was among us a widespread sense of admiration for your resourcefulness, for the impetuous momentum with which you throw yourself headlong into what you undertake, for the vehemence with which, you, just appeared on the scene of space, have been able to impose you, I think this is the more appropriate term, to the attention of the people of your - how call you it? - quadrant."

"Good blood will out, isn't it, Your Excellency? And maybe we are not talking of green blood, maybe it comes to red blood."

The Bannerda does not collect either the not hidden meaning of my words, nor their bitter sarcasm.

"And yet, one can not deny, despite all the charm that emanates from your race, so resolute, fiery, determined, versatile, intelligent, clever ... well, yes ... there is no denying that many of us were very reluctant to turn to you, because ..."

"Why, your Excellency?" *_Tell. Tell why, dammit! Or are you afraid of? Eh, Your Excellency?_*

"Well, certainly your behavioural attitudes are not ... are not crystal clear. You are capable of the greatest outbursts of love and selflessness, of solidarity and incredible altruism, of even inconceivable sacrifices for good. However ..."

"However, we can be even frightfully bad. Really wicked, it should be said. Is it so, your Excellency?"

"Ah.. yes. It is so."

"A breed very unreliable, ours, isn't it?"

"Mh, well, actually ..."

"I can understand the reasons that lay behind the reluctance of many of you to trust us, for that mission."

"Oh… ehm… sure. Understandable, after all, is not it?"

"I wonder why we are made in this way." *_I want to touch with my hand, damn Bannerda! I want to touch with my hand! Let me touch with my hand! Let me see!_*

The old Bannerda falls silent, staring intently at me. I feel scrutinized, pondered by him. Then he bends his head, and just a second after, he lifts it up, looking straight ahead. He sighs, gets up, walks to the window. He watches out, through it, in the clear air and bright outside.

Finally he turns toward us.

He looks serious.

I feel Mal close to me, his hand grasping mine.

The Bannerda approaches us.

He stops at some distance from us.

Even I sigh.

I'm going to touch with my hand.

"The King's blood was red." The Bannerda has said it, at long last. Dryly. Few words. Like a phaser shot. Burning in the same way.

I'm touching with my hand.

"It was red the blood of that race." The expression of Bannerda is tough. "As red as ..."

"As hell's fire."

Malcolm has ended for him.

I close slowly my eyes.

I reopen them with effort.

The Bannerda is watching us with a piercing look.

His hand moves purposely, as he did for the picture of Lil to appear.

Yes. I am touching with my hand.

And soon I shall see.

* * *

**End of Chapter ninth.**

**TBC**

_Oh dammit! What the **hell** will Hoshi see?_

_And Trip? And T'Pol? What about them?_

_And Archer & company?_

_Patience, patience, my friends._

_The **devil** is in no hurry._


	11. Chapter 11

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Tenth**

_**(The tenth, after the Prologue - The eleventh, counting the Prologue)**_

* * *

_Slowly, I know and I beg your pardon, the story goes on, and slowly before our eyes the whys and wherefores have started to unfold and are keeping on unravelling, so as to make us understand, to allow us to extricate ourselves through this tangle of myth and reality in which our friends of Enterprise have plummeted and, above all, in which our beloved Trip and T'Pol were sucked._

_Well, at least I hope it is really so, namely that truly you, my dear friends and readers, have had a chance to begin to glimpse a little light in the midst of all this darkness._

_Okay, let's see. We broke up while speaking of the devil and, be patient, we must continue to speak still of him._

_Yeah, because, in addition to that tiny query I asked you in the previous chapter (do you remember, my friends? The question was: **In your opinion, of what colour is devil's blood?** And I am sure you know now perfectly the answer, that's: **red**; **red**, no doubt about that), there is another question that must be answered, a question hung in the air from time immemorial._

_The question is: **what colour are his eyes?**_

"_Eh? Again? Enough Asso, enough now! Stop it!"_

_I seem to hear you, my friends, and you have every reason, really._

_But, believe me, it's not a question of little importance, indeed, it is a central issue in the whole affair._

_So, once again, my friends, be patient to be patient._

_I assure you that you will not be disappointed (well, at least I fervently hope!)_

_So, follow me, my readers and my friends. Come along to find out what colour are the eyes of the devil._

_And - who knows? - possibly we will find that it may be really true that sometimes (sometimes, be careful!) **the devil is not as bad as he is painted.**_

Ah, one last thing, if I may. By talking of central issues, I must thank one more time my dear friend and Beta, Linda, who once again was willing to smooth my language and my writing.

* * *

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

_**Chapter Tenth**_

Too much time is passing.

A weird feeling, a feeling unusual, unfamiliar, something that looks like _apprehension_, reverberates into the nothingness with which it is made the essence of the King, in His bodiless mind, now a hair's breadth away from having a body again.

But what is _that_ body doing? Why does it not move? What is it doing, sitting, legs crossed, on the burning sand of the desert, which He has created? With the eyes closed? Why does it seem not to suffer because of the heat?

What is plotting that body, that mind, taking advantage of the temporary leeway granted them? In the last moments that they can enjoy being one?

The strange feeling makes its way in the King.

It does not make sense. In any case He will be the winner, what that body and that mind are doing is nothing else than the consequence of His will, of His malignant and derisive play. So, why this odd feeling? There's no reason.

Yet ...

Another ancient sense, another dormant faculty, a faculty important, indispensable to every sentient creature, takes form in the formless Being.

_Curiosity._

The King's unfathomable senses approach the Human.

His face.

They look at it.

Scrutinize it

See it.

They observe that visage, really. With a far greater attention than they have done so far.

They examine its features.

* * *

The hands of the Bannerda have stopped moving.

Once again, an image has been formed in the air.

A face.

I glance sidelong at Mal.

I'm going to see with my eyes, to touch with my hands.

I know who the face represents.

* * *

The face of the man, of this Human, is… pleasant, yes, that's the term. And it appears strong. The chin is… sweet?... Yes, sweet, and yet mighty and firm; the mouth is determined. M… mi… mild, exactly. Mild. But resolute.

The forehead is high.

This visage… this visage…

The bodiless mind's concentration gets deepened; to the curiosity gets added something else, another unexpected sensation and decidedly unusual, for a Being so ancient like the King.

The surprise, just this, even if it is to be admitted that it is certainly not the first time that this man managed to surprise Him. But this time it comes to a kind of surprise really peculiar, special, in itself and for what it can mean.

It is the surprise that the King's disembodied brain sees, now, and that He hadn't been capable of seeing earlier, and that was just there, ready to be seen, if He just had paid a little more attention.

But before it was before. His awakening at the carnal call of the splendid body - and of the soul, of the essence of life - of the Vulcan woman offered to Him, as so many times it had happened in the course of the countless millennia of His imprisonment, with so many beautiful women, in compliance, in a sense and ultimately, of His own dictates in themselves, so as to keep Him in life - _to keep Him in His suspended life-not life!_ - had been the same as all the other times it had happened, just time enough to keep him in His existence of unawareness, of unclean, foul parasite.

A few moments of frantic, ravenous delight.

Then, again, the nothing.

The gray mist of the non-being.

The blind, unconscious waiting for another useless awakening.

These, this way, it had been all the previous _so-called_ returns to life He had had, before this time.

No reason ability, no understanding capability. Nothing. Nothing! If not...

**Hunger! Starvation! Unreasonable, unconquerable, mind-blinding and raging famine!**

But then ... this man ...

THIS MAN!

He had awakened Him. For real. He had ... forced Him to think, to try to understand.

To wonder.

To remember.

_And to observe._

Just as now.

The man's face… his visage's features…

His appearance…

Are they… are they, by chance, a bit resembling... yes, a bit resembling to His, no ... to those He had had, if it were not for a sort of irritating and annoying diffused - what's the word? - mildness on them, and for an all in all not great number of some not too big differences here and there?

And the hair…

It is dirty and dishevelled, but shines however in the merciless light of the sun.

Thick and bushy.

_Blonde._

_And the eyes? How are the eyes?_

They are closed. The lowered eyelids hide their colour.

* * *

It is impossible to see clearly how it can look, that face.

A black helmet, in the form of some sort of a big medieval helmet, covers its hair and goes down to cover up the forehead and eyebrows, continuing with a metallic band between the eyes to cover and protect the nose. The helmet covers also the ears as well as a large part of the visage, whose features appear, thus, practically almost fully concealed, even in the skin appearance, also in reason of the dark that wraps the face.

Not even the chin and mouth are clearly visible, because of the way they are hidden in the indistinct shadow where the face is submerged and because they are covered, both, by a large and dark brown chin-guard, made with what seems some kind of leather and connected with the helmet.

But the eyes… they are perfectly visible.

And they appear absolutely human.

*_Human. Human. Human like ours!_*

Human, yes. Even if…. maybe, one should say that they look perfectly human, except for…

They are open. Are fixed on us.

They look distant, contemptuous, chilly.

Dangerous.

_Inhumanly_ scary.

And they sparkle, just under the border of the black and big helmet, at the two sides of the metal shield covering the nose.

They glitter by a dark light.

A _blue _dark light.

* * *

The man's eyes open.

They are blue.

* * *

"Unlike for Lil, there is no reproduction of the King's features, before he got transformed in… the Devil."

Malcolm and I turn around at the voice of His Excellency. He used the term "Devil". He used our term, our "human" term, to describe the unclean thing that the King had become, whose appearance before this transformation was shown to us, if I do not deceive myself (and I do not think so), but whose real face, whose exact features, remain still unknowable.

He used that term and by doing so, he practically said all.

He said of whom this visage is.

The Bannerda nods, looking at me. May it be really true, by chance, that he knows how to read minds, this Being? That he may have, in some way, something more than the mere and not too much distinct touch-telepathy that our friends, our dear missing friends, Trip and T'Pol, told us clearly, as the best friends, that the Vulcans have? After all, now this was said clearly, the Bannerdas are the source of the Vulcans, their distant origin.

"Yes, it's him, Ensign. But how you two can see, how I have just said, we have no way to know how his visage was, for real. In effect, there are hundred of images that portray him, but no one shows his face entirely and with clarity, as if the horror and the fear were too great to reproduce in all evidence the features of the arch-enemy, almost that the portrayal of him could evoke his real presence. But this one, this, that you can watch, is very peculiar, that's why I chose it. See, Lieutenant, Ensign, it is the only one that shows, clearly, one thing."

The Bannerda advances toward us and passes between us without stopping, until he halts before the face of the King.

We turn around back, following his movements, without moving, toward the shadowed face.

The Bannerda is at a standstill in front of it. He's staring at those eyes. Human. And inhuman.

_Darkly blue._

He folds his hands behind his back, giving us his shoulders.

His voice rises again, deep and pensive.

"He was beautiful, the King. He was gorgeous. Tall, athletic, strong, puissant. Evil, for our meter, odious, foul, inhuman, ruthless. But was handsome. Our legends ... sure, our legends ... tell us that no man was more winsome than him. So beautiful outside, how bad inside. It is said that he was conscious he was handsome, and someway proud of it, especially in reason of some particularities that his beauty had. Two particularities."

The Bannerda turns to us, still with his hands crossed behind his back.

"The first, you cannot see it here, because the helmet hide totally the hair."

*_There we are.* "_The hair?"

"Yeah, the hair. The King's hair had a very rare characteristic as in his as in our breed, such as to be considered a sign of beauty in itself."

The Bannerda stares at us intently.

"The King was blond."

*_Yes. There we are. Really._* "And the second?" Mal preceded me.

"The second… it comes to something that made him unique."

His Excellency stops talking and turns back toward the face of the King, before he resumes speaking, as if he doesn't want to watch us as he reveals to us the second peculiarity of the Great Enemy. But it isn't difficult to understand what it is, as well… as well as why the Bannerda is ill at ease in telling us plainly this peculiarity that made the King _unique_.

"As far as it is narrated, only he possessed this characteristic, among his fellows and, as it is still handed down, nobody else had it, not even among us, by that time, remote beyond any cognizance."

The Bannerda raises an arm toward the image.

"This image is the only one that shows this characteristic, daring to show what was said being the unfathomable mirror of his unfathomable soul, one and only in its aspect, just as one and only it was the nefariousness of his obscure heart."

A little hesitation. Then: "Obscure, as obscure it is the _deep blue_ of the icy-cold and lifeless depths of oceans."

His Excellency makes pause for a brief moment. Only a fleeting instant, but enough to make me twist inside, waiting for what I feel, know, fear, that he will say.

"Look at his eyes, my guests and friends. They are beautiful, aren't they? It's amazing how the unknown artist to whom we owe this, managed to make it all the mysterious and fascinating splendour of that look, all the unfathomable wickedness of that splendour. You know, our legends tell us that no one wanted to portray those eyes, because their mysterious beauty, the bewitching light of their colour, _of their one and only one colour_, was able to suck your soul, to make you become evil, to make you **his** slave forever. It is said in effect that the one who made this portrait, an artist enslaved by the King and forced by him to do it, ended up to kill himself, not to succumb to the siren call of those eyes, not to vanish forever into the light of their evil and mysterious colour."

His Excellency turns around once again. He looks at us. Fixedly.

"A colour that only his eyes had."

*_There!_*

"The blue."

* * *

Blond hair.

_And blue eyes._

In the soulless Being, now the faculties have all returned. How did He not realize it earlier?

Blond hair.

And blue eyes.

**Blue eyes!**

Only He - He, the King! - had had, together, blond hair and blue eyes!

Above all, the blue colour of the eyes had been of Him alone! Only He had had this eye colour! No one else, except Him, had possessed such eyes colour!

It had been His brand and the damnation of His enemies.

It was the genetic characteristic, unique, with which He was born so long ago that not even He has cognizance of how much time is passed since His birth, from parents who were devoid of this genetic trait, also born, in their turn, from parents lacking of it, in their turn fruit of parents who were without it, and so on, backwards in time until the beginning of all, when His breed and that of the Others had appeared on the scene of the universe, the only two breeds, so similar to each other and yet so different, that there were at that immensely far away time.

And between which the war for the predominance had begun since the first time they had met.

_Because there couldn't have been room for both the breeds, in the whole cosmos._

Those stupid opponents and cowardly and ridiculous! Ridiculously full of strange concepts of justice, friendship, brotherhood! They could not be anything else than slaves of His people, as well as all the other breeds appearing afterward, because His people were the greatest, the only ones really worthy, the ones for whom, for whose service, had been made the whole of creation!

**The universe was theirs!**

And for this, for the assertion of this imperative, vital right, intrinsic to the nature itself of His people, to its very essence, to its existence, it had burst the endless war that He had inherited.

Three times His people, the monarchs who had preceded Him, had been forced to retreat, almost to surrender, in the face of the overwhelming forces of the Others, who set no limits to their births, didn't return into the repugnant sewer, whence they sprung, the daubs of nature that arose between them, as His people did, instead, to preserve, proudly and rightly, the purity of their race.

Three times, before it had appeared **He**.

He.

And His eyes. His deep blue eyes, unique, such as unique it was His deadly strength, His pitiless intelligence.

He had re-lifted up the fortunes of His people.

He had led it to the rescue.

He had become the scourge of their enemies, their implacable persecutor, more, much more, infinitely more than they had been able to be all the sovereigns who had preceded him, including those who had managed to rise up their people again, _**His**_ people, from the darkness in which they were about to sink, when that had been about to happen.

_He had become** the King.**_

And his blue eyes had become legend. Like Him. A legend horrible and fearful for His enemies.

At the point that among some of them the idea had been born that He had always been, that He and He alone, was - all along - the cause and origin, the source and essence of all their evils.

At the point that some of them had begun to work, secretly, for Him, _even to adore Him_, by having ended thinking that in Him lay the creation's primordial essence itself, something that He had taken care of fostering, which had been very useful, ultimately, for the planning itself and for the possible success of His "resurrection program".

Stupid, stupid little men! Unworthy of life! Unworthy to exist! Good only to serve Him!

Even if... - _Memories, remembrances. Lacerating remembrances!_ -... even if from that other breed had born Lil.

_Lil._

So similar to that Vulcan female, that the two of them could be practically the same person.

Just so.

While, in the same time, this man has His blond hair.

AND HIS BLUE EYES.

The mighty brain without substance takes to work with frenzy.

He knows perfectly well that the genes of His race, in view of the many, countless mergers that there had been before His birth and before His… transformation and that of course there should have been after it, have had every opportunity to be handed down in very different ways, everywhere, in each of the younger races that have appeared on the stage of the universe during the innumerable eons that have passed. Not all the creatures born from those matings had found their death, as it had been the custom and the law of His breed, and it is highly probable that after His _disgrace_, this had happened even more frequently. So, why could it not be possible that the hair blonde colour could appear, now, in the breed of this man? In him?

And as for Him… as for the colour of His eyes…

An image ... confused ... distant in time ... and nevertheless clear and ... and _yearning_ in a heart that He no longer possess.

_But that once he had had and that had beaten for something He had not been able to understand, but that had prompted Him to do... to do…_

The memories come back. All of them.

Uncompassionate.

More uncompassionate than Him himself.

_A child, given him by Lil. _

A child, hidden to everyone, in one with a pregnancy and a delivery carried on without anyone being aware, unbeknown to all, in the secret of His ... of _their_ rooms in His palace, taking advantage of His absolute power, that granted Him to do whatever He wanted.

A child whose existence, whose birth itself, had to be hidden from everyone, because, otherwise, that child would find death, as the law, **His** law, had required.

As He had decided it to happen every time in His long life He had granted himself the pleasure of the flesh and this had given its fruits.

_Before Lil._

He did not understand why - He could not - but the son of Him and of Lil could not, should not, die.

Lil was different from those other women who had given pleasure to Him, before her. She was special, she had given something to him that He should have avoided, even cursed, because substantially it had ended up to provoke the counter-attack of His opponent, the Great Monarch, to cause, ultimately, His end itself.

But it was something of which He could not have done without.

Something that He had never had in His long, lonely existence, made just with violence, hatred, force. Blood.

Lil ... Lil had not yielded to His charm, to the hypnotic light of His blue eyes, because forced; had not given herself to Him for fear, necessity, duress. Lil had given herself to Him ... why? Why had she renounced everything she had, her race, her creed ... any thing ... for Him?

Why had she smiled, glad, happy in His embrace?

Why?

Why had he felt her within Him, tied to Him in a bond that He did not understand?

And why ... why! WHY! - when he had perceived what they were doing to her the women - those faithless, treacherous,damn women of her own race! – had He not managed, had not had time to go back to her, to save her?

Why?

And why had He decided the child, due to their union, had to live?

_Memories. Memories! MEMORIES! Uncompassionate memories!_

_**Lacerating remembrances!**_

Their quarters. Lil and her growing belly. His… His care for her, without anyone knowing what was happening.

She alone with Him.

Expecting, together, the birth.

She, He. And His machineries, His science, His knowledge. That allowed Him to handle everything well.

While the war raged outside, the war that had started not to go good for Him, after He had found Lil, after He had begun to savour what Lil was capable of giving Him.

But He did not want to... _could not_ ... concentrate himself in the war.

He wanted to... _had to_... savour Lil.

An endless time. An endless war. That He had been finally about to win.

But He had found Lil.

And He had forgotten the war.

And she had gotten pregnant by him.

And He had decided that the fruit of their union, of that strange, incomprehensible thing that had born between them, that thing that Lil called... that Lil called love, had to live.

What had become of their child? Of the child Lil had finally given Him, and whose existence only He and His machineries had been aware? The child for whom He hadn't wanted death and of whom He no longer had known anything, after that distant, cursed night; after that He no longer had been able to be what He was and… to use His brain the way He had done before?

Maybe that child had not died that night.

Indeed ...

_A look, if it can be called so, a thoughtful look at the deep blue eyes of the man, who now seems to rouse from his state. And, at the same time, something strange, unknown; some sort of feeling, of a relieving sensation._

… indeed surely the child had not died, he had lived and been able to have children in his turn, because, since all the genes present at this time in all the breeds populating the present-day universe can't be anything but the genes of His own breed and of that of His enemies, even granted that, inevitably, a very large amount of gene variations have occurred in the passing of eras, the only explanation for the blue of the man's eyes is that he has inherited this characteristic from his ancestors.

From the one only who, among all the ancestors the man has, possessed this genetic characteristic.

_From the son Lil had given Him, whom He has been able to see for too short time, but enough to allow Him to realize that - among all the genetic traits the child had, coming from his mother: the pointed ears, the skin colour, the green blood and lot of others, that unavoidably He had no time to notice – the undefined colour of the eyes that is proper to the newborns and that also their son had, was turning into the colour of His eyes._

_**The blue.**_

_Consequently the blue colour of the eyes of this man comes directly from Him._

This man, his breed, just as, most likely, a lot of the other breeds living now, even if bastardized by the merges occurred in the time, are descendants of His own breed; the red colour of their blood comes from His breed; _and the eyes blue colour they have – rather, can have - comes __**directly**__ from Him._

_**This man comes directly from Him.**_

Nothing strange, after all. Nothing impossible.

But… if so, couldn't the man have something else, something more, of His gene pool?

Why not?

_**Why not?**_

This man seems to be linked to that Vulcan female just as He had been linked to Lil. This man has been able to follow that woman where nobody could do it. This man seems to have a strength, inside, that resembles the strength **He** had.

And, by using this strength, this man is fighting for his woman just as He would have wanted _... just as He would have wanted to fight for His Lil._

His Lil. Of whom that Vulcan female is the perfect image.

And if...

Sure, Lil had died. She was gone.

But may it be possible that the similarity between Lil and that woman is more than just a simple, although amazing, likeness?

May it be possible that in that woman, in that Vulcan woman, it is reappeared, shuffled, of course, but practically in it entirety, or, at least, in the more important elements, the genetic heritage of Lil? Lil's father, that damned, had had other children besides her, from her mother, He knew it, and both that cursed man and her mother weren't only sons.

So, why not? Why could not it be possible that, in the endless recombinations of the genetic material coming from the father and mother of Lil, occurred over the eons, without forgetting that their genes had been present in an infinite number of other individuals, it could have happened that one of these rearrangements had given rise, again, to her? To Lil?

Unlikely, but not impossible. Anything is possible, if there is time enough for the improbable to become possible. And feasible, realizable, achievable. And of time, there had been in plenty. After all, on such a similar sort of probability calculus it had been based His revival plan.

But in this case ... that woman, that ... that T'Pol... may be ... may be that she is so because in fact, she is **really **Lil? Because in her _**His **_Lil is **really** living again?

And, to bring things to the extreme, in reason of what this man, this Human, has been able to do and considering the link between him and that Vulcan woman who COULD BE Lil, may it be that he, who has His blond hair and above all His blue eyes because he has inside His genetic heritage; this man who has, and it is not an illusion, something in his features that remind His ... _may it be that he might be_...?

The unknowable senses scrutinize more closely, almost spasmodically, the man's face.

Those features ... if in them it were made a bit of minor adjustment - for example, the lips a little fuller, the cheeks a little more hollowed, the eyelids a little heavier; a little, just a very little - … if they were harsher, tougher, if the skin colour were darker, if the dark blue of the eyes were different, more glittering by that light that had been of the blue of His own eyes ... could they be… _**really**_… His own features?

May it be that the opportunity that He has expected and waited for, even unconsciously, in the impotence that had gripped Him, for immeasurable eons, has now occurred well beyond all rosy forecast?

May it be that that body, which will become His_**, is already His own body**_, in a sense? And that with that body He will have again, for real, not only His essence, His power, His vengeance, the realization - at last, after such an infinite time - of His legitimate aspirations of domination, but also Him himself, what He had been, the himself that He had been?

_And, together with this himself, also His Lil?_

It's a matter of fact: the case exists.

It's a matter of fact: there are forces, in the Universe, unknowable and unfathomable, playing unknowable and unfathomable games.

It's a matter of fact: sometimes what seems being a case is the result of the unknowable and unfathomable games played by these unknowable and unfathomable forces.

It's a matter of fact: it's not impossible that this kind of _so-called_ case may be exactly what is happening now.

IT'S A MATTER OF FACT: whether it is a mere case or not, all this can not - and must not! - be ignored.

Just so. Because - after all – it may be not a case.

_And He would want ... **He wants!** ... it not to be a case!_

The man is getting up.

Behold, now he is standing.

He looks around.

He starts to walk, determined, in a definite direction. Without hesitation. Without in the least caring of the hot sun that beats down on his bare skin, nor of the burning sand under the soles of his feet, which advance resolute, precise, sure.

The bodiless essence withdraws, rapidly, resisting the temptation to enter the mind of the man, to know.

Now things have changed. It is not simply to keep the word or not, which is the last thing He, the King, could worry about. It is no longer simply to verify, having at the same time a wicked fun, if that man, that body, possess the strength to house Him, fearing contemporaneously that it could be not so, since that in any case He must now take hold of that body and of that mind, that this is the only thing He can do, now.

It is not anymore merely this.

_Now it comes to…_

Words.

Words, for the first time _true_ words.

They are formed in the mind of the almost resurrected King.

Of the **truly** almost resurrected King, if it is **true** what He suspects.

The man doesn't hear the words, he can not and must not hear them, which, on the other hand, are pronounced in a language that he couldn't understand.

But they are addressed to him.

And they have a weird tone, amazing, considering from whom they come.

A threatening tone, but, together, even a tone of hopeful desire, almost of request.

*_Come on, show me what you are capable of doing. Save her, save her as I would have wanted to do with Lil. Show me WHO you are. Prove that it is true that when I will take hold of you, I SHALL BE REALLY ABLE TO BE WHO I WAS._*

And, almost a sigh of a soul that there is not, just a few other words…

*_And that I can have back again, really, my Lil._*

* * *

_**End of chapter tenth**_

_**TBC**_

_So, my friends? Was I right? This one, of the eye colour of the devil, was or was not a central issue?_

_And, in addition, I think that you, after reading this chapter, may agree with me that, really, sometimes, the devil is not as bad as he is painted._

_But, my friends (and I am persuaded that the just finished reading can definitely confirm this statement)..._

_**As much as he can sometimes seem a little less ugly, the devil remains still damn ugly!**_

_**Damnedly, damnedly bad!**_


	12. Chapter 12

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eleventh**

_**(The Eleventh, after the Prologue - The Twelfth, counting the Prologue)**_

* * *

_I know, I know. A lot of time has passed and there are a lot of loose ends. Forgive me, my friends. But now, do we want to try to continue to unravel the thread of this story?_

_Yes? Okay, in this case, please, read below. I and my friend Linda, who helped me to express myself a little better than how I am capable, we'd be really happy._

* * *

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eleventh**

_**(The Eleventh, after the Prologue - The Twelfth, counting the Prologue)**_

* * *

"Okay. Okay! OKAY! We get it. It is clear. Clear! But...but…"

"But how did it happen, Your Excellency?" - The harsh and gloomy voice of Malcolm breaks mercifully my hysterical babble, providing more solid substance to what would have been my question. We are truly united, I and my Malcolm; also we possess something that could be said Bond-like. The road has been long, but now… His hand squeezes mine; its grip tells me with strength and love to be silent, to make him speak for both us. – "How has it happened that Lucifer has turned into Satan?"

There is no longer reticence or inhibition now, in my Mal, not containment. His gaze is taut and vibrant while talking, looking at His Excellency with explicit intensity.

The quizzical look and perplexed of the Bannerda lasts only a moment. Mal immediately gives answer to any possible question he may ask. "Lucifer, the light bearer, the most beautiful creature and bright that came out from the hands of the One Who started the whole, the most lofty of Angels. And Satan, the one who opposes. The adversary. The enemy. - Mal strongly utters these words. - The what into which Lucifer was turned. The devil."

Malcolm lets go of my hand.

I glance at him. I do not speak. He advances. Just one step. Gravely. He stares at the old Bannerda. – "_The Great Enemy_."

No unwillingness now. No. None. Only the truth, which we, once and for all, want to - have to - know. – "How did it happen, Your Excellency? What happened when the Great Monarch faced the Great Enemy? Why..." - The voice of Mal rises, stentorian. There is no trace of awe or reverence in him. "...why are we here?" - His voice rises even more. – "What is happening – **now** - to T'Pol, the re-living Lil? And..." - His voice cracks. – "...to Trip, the…" – Just a small, almost imperceptible hesitation – "The re-living Great Enemy? **The King**?"

* * *

That way. In that direction.

There can be no doubt.

He feels her very strongly, inside his head, in his brain, in his mind. In his soul. His ploy worked. The linkage, the Bond, has been restored and it is strong.

And his T'Pol is calling him.

_*Here, T'hai'la, I'm here. This way.*_

Oh God, God, God! How he perceives her well and loud!

He can see her. She is naked, on her knees. In irons. Chained to a rock wall. A cave. Lit by torches. Wet and cold.

He can feel her suffering. The cold she feels. The pain of the iron bands that girdle her wrists and her ankles. The torment of the rough neck brace that clenches her throat, that prevents her from moving her head, that holds her nailed to the rock, that forces her to stay on her knees.

He can feel her fear.

He can sense the horrid presence that vises her mind.

He can perceive the superhuman effort, even well beyond any ability to control that even a Vulcan can possess, that she is making for not caving in to all that pain, that fear, that inhuman, demonic essence that permeates her body and her mind.

He can understand and experience, as if it was him himself feeling it, the desperate effort of will that she is carrying out not to fall into the abyss, not to fall prey to that demon, to keep alive the Bond that he has managed to restore, to give him a guide, a track, a voice, allowing him to come to her.

_*Here, T'hai'la, I'm here. This way. Come to me. And make me free. Free me. I beg you. Free me from Him!*_

Free.

_*T'Pol. T'Pol T'Pol T'Pol! My love! My treasure, my whole, my everything, my... my...*_

Free.

He is free. The damn demon keeps himself out from him. The word of the devil. The… _word of the devil_.

Free. He must be so, because he must fight, freely and fully, his challenge. He must fully face the first of the three trials.

But she, his beloved love, his T'Pol, no. She, no. She's not free.

She suffers and struggles in the throes of that Being, who goads him mockingly, with the biting, abrasive spur of her pain.

Of her fear.

Of her terror.

But she resists.

She dies of pain and fear, but she resists.

She resists.

She calls him.

She traces the way to him.

She does what she has to do.

He… he _must_ be worthy of her.

He must free her.

And he must help her.

He must help her, he must! He must, he must, he must, he… The Bond!

The Bond. Their strength.

Their weapon.

Stronger and more powerful than anything else.

_Because it is the expression of their love._

_**Stronger and more powerful than anything else.**_

He has managed to attract her to him before, through their Bond.

He was able to show, de facto, that the Bond is anything but unidirectional, that he is a very active part of it.

But then, in this case, if it is so, perhaps, he can use it again. Yes. _In order to..._

An outpouring of love and strength radiates sudden and powerful from him. From his body once again intact and strong, by the will of that creature that wants him physically fit and mentally, to face the challenges. And from his soul overflowing with infinite love.

It goes. Goes, goes, goes...

It reaches her.

It submerges her.

It floods her.

And T'Pol rears her head.

In spite of the neck brace which blocks and martyrises her in excruciating agony.

And she smiles.

T'Pol, the Vulcan, smiles.

The most tormented and ailing smile ever seen in the universe.

But T'Pol does it.

_*We'll make it, Trip.*_

He... he has never felt her, this way! He seems even to be able to hear her words in his head!

_*T'Pol...*_

_*We'll make it, Ashayam.*_

* * *

"What is happening to your friend Vulcan First Officer? To your Commander Tucker?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"I do not know."

"Excellency..."

"But I can imagine."

I advance in my turn, placing myself at the side of Mal. "And what do you imagine, Your Excellency?"

The old Bannerda throws me a strange look. He averts his eyes from me, almost with shame. He turns to Mal.

"The answer to this question proceeds directly from the answer to that other question, placed from you, Lieutenant, ie., how the transformation took place, because from this it stems all the consequences, including those that led to here the two of you and those that your two friends are undergoing now."

"And then talk, Your Excellency."

The Bannerda nods. "The two opponents stared for a moment. The Good. The Evil. Just a second. Then the swords sang."

I approach my Mal. Its proximity gives me a bit of the security I need.

We are going to know.

The devil - our ... Trip - is about to be revealed to us.

In all his essence.

* * *

It is powerful. This Bond is powerful. Incredibly powerful.

Now the King has understood. That Being, that other ... that other Himself, has used and is using, not even knowing how, the force that unites him to that Vulcan, to ... to that new Lil.

He has managed to attract her to him, to create, or rather recreate the connection that links them, for then to use this connection as a guide wire and now, through this Bond, this force, she is leading him to her, just as he is giving her the strength she needs.

He, The King, knows all this, without the need to penetrate the man, because He is inside her.

He encloses her, keeps her, holds her, dominates her. This is useful. Her suffering is like a lash that impels painfully the man to find her, in order to free her - foolish being! It is the more appropriate spur to plunge him, headfirst, into his absurd challenge.

But it is also beautiful. Extremely satisfactory. Fulfilling. Yes. Decidedly pleasant. Intoxicating.

What a wonderful feeling! Being back able to inflict pain and suffering! Certainly, hurting a Being so similar to His Lil carries with it something perturbing, subtly disturbing. But that woman is not Lil, or rather she is not EXACTLY Lil. Even admitting that she is her reincarnation, she is still another woman, in whom her life experience, different from that of Lil, has carved the marble of her essence, making her what she is: Lil and at same time not Lil; which does not mean that, in due time, the marble can not be moulded again, in order to make her marble completely similar to the marble of Lil.

And then, whether it's disturbing or not what He is doing to that woman, it is not that He, the King, has been exactly - The term comes out with difficulty from His memory - _tender_ not even with Lil, His Lil. His race, His life, His essence, were and are force, violence, malfeasance, as it is inevitable – and right - that it is, and, of course, although, it is necessary say, Lil had in some way changed Him, He couldn't change so much that, towards her, He could have been different from what He was and is, nor He had wanted this. Overall, He had been also with her what He was and is and always would be: the King.

But, which had always given Him to think, then as now, Lil seemed to be, and in fact she was, glad, happy of what He was. She did not want Him to be different. She simply wanted Him. The man that He was. And this ... this managed to give birth in Him to that thing... that thing He did not understand and that she called love.

That thing that had led Him to feel for her - and to show her - sometimes... tenderness.

He. The King. Tender. With His Lil.

But that had been before.

Then... it had happened what had happened.

And from that moment, He had no longer been able to feel tenderness. From that moment He had been able to feel only anger. And fury. And madness.

And in that anger, in that fury, in that madness, His enemies had crystallized Him.

_Forever_, they thought. And disposed to pay, as they then had to do, the dearest of prices just to reach such a result.

But they had not reckoned with His mind, distorted, deformed, reduced to the fury and madness, but still His mind. And had not reckoned with destiny. And with the subtle play of the passing of time, that, in its endless flow, makes all possible, even what appears to be impossible.

Which means, things being this way, that it is definitely possible that, now, for Him, they are opening the doors not only for His rebirth, by now ineluctable, but also for His return to what He had been.

To what, to the one He had _really_ been.

To the one He had been _before_.

That body, which will be His new body but which is, in some way, also His antique body, and that woman, who will be His new Lil but who is also His true, antique Lil, maybe they could allow Him to feel, again… tenderness.

Such as that that this man feels for his woman, that reverberates so strong inside their Bond.

Yes, it's really powerful, this Bond.

Just like the one that bound Him, the King, to His Lil.

But the Bond is not enough. It is not enough the female's guide, her recall.

There is the desert around the man. Its hot sand. Its scorching sun.

There is the red-hot bleakness which that man hates and which He, the King, picked up in the knowledge the female has of him, and that He created by means of the frigid, dead machineries which have become His world, his soulless existence, his essence itself, just to put the man in the fine midst of one of the things he most loathes and against which he seems to really have poor defences.

What will he do, the man, to resist the desert? And how will he overcome the glowing space that separates him from his own Lil?

Suddenly the King stops in his thoughts.

He…

He is rooting for that man.

And not just because the man's victory will be His own victory.

* * *

"Cleaving blows, puissant strokes, moves, feints, pirouettes.

Sparks from the blades clashing against each other.

The last challenge was taking place.

Under the high vault of the King's palace, in front of the mute warriors of the Grand Monarch, of the silent minions of the Dark Lord, of the drooling and monstrous Ghouls; in front of the marble shelf on which the dead Lil's body lay; in front of the horrendous pile of the lifeless bodies of the women who had murdered her, the two opponents have faced the last fight, the final duel.

The death of the one.

Or the death of the other.

The victory of the good.

Or the victory of the evil."

Mal and I listen, fascinated. All this ... has happened. Truly. Really.

It is charmingly packaged and narrated, too, in the manner of a fairy tale, or, rather, of a grim legend of love and death, of a gothic tale. But it is not.

The riveting storyteller, the Old Bannerda, is well aware of that, now. And we too are by now conscious of it.

"But the evil was powerful. _The King_ was powerful. And the death of Lil, his thirst for revenge, increased a hundredfold his forces.

One shot, terrible, and the Great Monarch fell to his knees, his sword hurled away from him, in pieces, in fragments, minutes and dispersed.

The universe stopped.

The Great Monarch lifted his eyes.

In front of him, looming over him, the Dark Lord, motionless and icy, raised slowly his mighty arm.

His burnished sword shone glittering.

Heaved aloft.

To be lowered with disruptive force.

To give death."

* * *

Death. The desert will be his death.

The disembodied eye follows the naked man, who advances decided on the hot sand, under the scorching sun.

He knows where to go, now.

But how will he reach her? How will he pass, unharmed, the deadly wilderness that separates the two of them?

How will he escape death?

* * *

"But the blade didn't go down."

I realize that I'm holding my breath. And even Mal.

"Suddenly the eyes of the Dark Lord widened in surprise.

In pain.

They ducked to look at his chest, at the black cuirass that covered it.

At the sharp tip and dripping with his red blood, that stuck out from his armour. _The tip of the blade that had speared him, from behind, that had transpierced him from side to side._"

"The father of Lil!"

The Bannerda nods to the damped exclamation that burst out, unstoppable, from my mouth.

"Yes, Ensign."

"He managed to do what he had said he would!"

"Yes, Ensign. The fatal strife had attracted everyone's eyes and minds, and no one had longer had any attention for him and for his broken body lying on the ground, against the wall. But he was not dead; he was holding back his spirit with teeth, waiting.

The death dance of the two contenders had brought them near to him and when the fate of the Great Monarch seemed to be fixed, he managed to rouse himself. He acted. And he honoured what he had said. By his sharp and long knife.

'_Lil is avenged, foul beast.'_

Everyone could hear these faint words, that the father of Lil succeeded in saying, exhaling the last breath of life, all eyes now focused on him.

Even the King heard them, while his hand lost its strength and dropped the sword, which fell down, slamming into the ground with a dismal thud; while the blue of his eyes was getting lustreless and his face bleached, quickly, as a gush of dark red blood welled plentiful from his mouth, taking away with it his black soul."

"But, Excellency, that's impossible. The King didn't die. If it had been so, how could he be turned into...?"

"Into that thing, Lieutenant? Into _your_ devil?"

"Yes."

"He died, Lieutenant. It couldn't not be so. The blade of his nemesis, the one from whom he had stolen the body and the soul of the daughter, had split his heart. In one shot. The blade had stopped the King's heart forever."

"Excellency…"

"His body died, Lieutenant. But…"

"But?"

"But not his mind, even though, in reality, what was the true mind of the King, it, too, died, in a sense."

"You can not resurge from death."

"But you can cheat death, if you have enough knowledge. If you know how to do. "

* * *

That man, that Human who has His hair, His eyes, His strength and a woman who looks as, could even be, His Lil, might he be Him to such an extent? Might he have even enough knowledge, as He had had, to cheat death? Might he know how to do?

* * *

_*Okay, man. Don't be distracted by her torture. Focus, try to reason. Now you know where T'Pol is, even if only vaguely. At least, you know in which direction you need to go. The distance, though, that separates you from her, can be an hour or a day or a month or a year. Or a century. And here, in this desert, under this sun, with nothing to protect you nor anything to drink, because you, with your usual foolish impetuosity, have given up even to that asshole hat and the little water you had been granted, well, you'll be dead in less than half an hour.*_

Yeah. Just like that. But …

This desert, from where the hell, just to stay on, came it out?

The nightmare planet on which they have landed, has anything but deserts, it is practically covered with forests. There is only that mountain, over the forests and, under the mountain there is, and he has perfectly realized this, what there has to be. Rock, tunnels and caverns.

Of course, if this Being is so powerful as he seems to be, you may think that the desert was really created by him.

However... however, given for true that that Being is really the devil or something very close to the devil ... well, the devil is not the Creator, does not have the ability to create, or, at least, he should not own it. Creating ... hell, creating it is not a no brainer! Who was really able to do it wouldn't have need to stay holed up inside a mountain to wait for a body for him, a body in which to lodge. A body, such a Being could easily create, and certainly better than that of a poor engineer of scanty brain. Such a Being wouldn't let himself be dragged into ridiculous challenges, wouldn't fall to the nethermost level of nethermost creatures like him, miserable, lousy Human. Such a Being wouldn't need to resort to such cheap tricks by third string. By a strolling player. By a vaudeville magician.

Yeah ... sure.

_By a vaudeville magician._

_By… an illusionist. Like the ones that make you believe things that ..._

The desert.

Yeah, the desert. To think about it, why the desert? He hates the desert, he has already risked losing his skin, in the desert. A better challenge to deal with, and most deadly, couldn't have been found. As if ... yes, as if that damn Being were full well aware that he loathes and fears the deserts, from the depths of the heart. And that fiend ... that fiend is inside T'Pol. That demon can know everything that she knows about him. Including his hatred and his fear for the deserts. His vulnerability, his fragility towards them.

And this desert... this _peculiar_ desert… it is... For devil's sake! Just to stay on, again! This desert is the most nightmarish of the greatest nightmare of deserts! Indeed. It looks just like that nightmare of a desert that he has so often had in his nightmares after that nightmare experience. Sure. Just so. Maybe he should have noticed it before, but ... well, after all, he's got some justifications in this regard.

Okay. So what?

The devil… the desert… _His, Trip's, own personal desert…_

And T'Pol.

In a cave.

Chained to rocks.

The picture he has had of where T'Pol is, it is absolutely clear. But, what the hell could it do there, a cave, in a desert? In the bowels of a mountain, yes, a cave, here - it can stay full well. But in a desert, no. Not at all.

Sure.

How... how also is he called, the devil? The Lord ... yes, the Lord of deceptions.

A vaudeville magician, basically, may the Horned Sir forgive him. _An illusionist_. Who makes you believe things that… _are not true._

Who can make you live your nightmares as if they were real. Fishing them from inside your brain.

Who swindles you with his deceptions.

Deceptions.

_Deceptions._

A deception? All this a hoax? The projection of a nightmare of his mind?

Okay, let's see a little.

This desert is damn real. The sand is hot, the sun burns, the heat is atrocious. However, even the white space of T'Pol, appears real. And also his personal white space, the one where he was able to call T'Pol to him, has been damn real. _But they are not._ And, by the way, he, T'Pol, he did not ever touched her – for real - and has not even seen her – for real - since the two of them are here, in the bowels of this damn mountain. He has seen and touched - _and embraced and kissed_ - her in his own white space. Not in the real world. And before... well, before, he has seen her chained up in the air. _An image of her chained up in the air_. He has seen... her image. Yeah. Her image.

Just what, of her, he was allowed to see.

But he never saw her in the flesh. He never touched her for real.

_*So… in the end…*_

So, in the end, to draw the conclusions, if he has to be… realistic, the only things that really can be considered real, in all this unreal scenario, are the mountain, its bowels, its rocks. Just as the rocks to which T'Pol is chained.

The rest… the desert… even… even T'Pol's location, the distance that separates her from him…

May it be true, his suspicion? May it be possible that, in reality, the desert does not exist? Indeed, that it could be that he has never moved from where he was, when he launched his challenge? Standing. In the bowels of the mountain. Or that, at most, he may have moved only a little? That he may have felt walking on the burning sand of a desert, actually doing no more than a few steps on the stone floor of the place where he was? In a cavern into the bowels of the mountain? Maybe ... maybe even the same cavern where T'Pol is chained or in a cavern a few steps from the cave - that one yes, real - where she is in irons, waiting to be found and freed by him? It is ... it is so strong her call, her voice. Her presence.

A nightmare. Is it possible? A nightmare, a nightmare of his own, made real by the Lord of deceptions?

Let's admit it. Yes, let's admit it. Let's carry on in this hope. But, and then? Is there anything to do?

Well, if you think of it, the nightmares... do not kill. Never. They can not. When you become subtly, indistinctly conscious that you're having a nightmare, you wake up. It is a defence mechanism. It can't be circumvented.

Just be aware that it is a nightmare.

Just have the will to wake up.

Just have the will.

_*What is there to lose? If this is really a nightmare, a deception of the devil, wake up, man!*_

Wake up!

BACK TO REALITY!

Just have the will.

_*JUST HAVE THE WILL!*_

* * *

The bodiless eye could burst wide open, if it were able, while it observes the man who managed to comprehend, who understood the fallacy of the world built around him and how to dispel the fake, mortal desert coming from his subconscious itself and who now, standing in the vast cavern in which he has always been and that is now clearly visible to his eyes, looks around and then, following the strong and clear trace of his woman's call, heads and runs speedily and securely towards the mouth of the tunnel that leads to the cave where she is.

That eye could pop out from its orbit, if it possessed an orbit from which it may squirt out, while it watches the man entering inside; while, bent, he goes through the narrow tunnel.

While he emerges into the cave.

_Into **that** cave._

* * *

"**Trip!**"

* * *

"Remember, my friends." - The voice of His Excellency is serious and deep. - "We are talking about times and people whose scientific knowledges were enormous, exceeding our own. Of course, the myth has transfigured everything, but now we know that we are not talking of myths, but of reality, of what really happened; then we must be able to read what is behind and within the myth."

"Excellency." - The voice of my Mal is just as serious and profound as that of His Excellency. - "What tells the myth?"

"That there is always something imponderable in what you do, what you program. You decide something, and your decision, unpredictably, collapses on you. Your good, what you had thought was your good, it becomes your evil. And you will have to pay the consequences."

* * *

It is so good not to look real.

Yet it is so.

In front of her, while the desert which had inexplicably surrounded the cave of her imprisonment had completely faded away, naked and tousled - and wonderful! - there is her Trip, her T'hai'la, her Ashayam, her K'diwa.

Her deliverer!

True. Real. In flesh and blood.

Her flesh tight in the chains is burning with pain, her nude body is shivering in the damp and the cold, her brain is getting crazy in the grip of that abomination.

But he is there. Her love is there.

And he would free her.

Not even she could tell how she may be able to do it, but she succeeds. She lifts a little her head, ignoring the pain that such a gesture gives her because of the painful pull of the iron collar that encircles her neck.

She looks at him with eyes full of a weeping without tears. Of pain. But also, and above all, of relief. Of hope.

Of firm and steadfast trust.

Broken and feeble, her voice wafts weakly from her wan lips. "I was sure, T'hai'la. I was sure. We…" - A whimper. Insuppressible. – "…we would make it."

A moment, much less than a moment, and he is at her feet. On his knees. Is embracing her. Is tightly holding her.

Is protecting her. "T'Pol..."

"You've made it."

An aching sigh of reliance and love. "_My T'hai'la_".

* * *

That man, that Human... it is really Him. That man has had the knowledge, as He had had, to cheat death, has known how to do it.

But - a thrill runs through the disembodied essence - as to Him, the King, it happened, he too, that man, _that reborn Himself,_ will have to pay the consequences.

There is always something imponderable in what you do, what you program. You decide something, and your decision, unpredictably, collapses on you. Your good, what you had thought was your good, it becomes your evil.

It happened to Him. The King.

It would happen to this man.

He confronts, fights, battles. But he knows well what end awaits him.

He knows it.

No matter how strong and sagacious and capable and bold and stubborn and combative, this being, this Human, may be. No matter how much the force may be, that the love and the reliance on him that his woman harbours for him, may instill in him. The destiny that has been His, of the King, would also be his fate. The impalpable wire that, from a remote past, has descended from Him, from the King, to that being and that inextricably unites them to one another, now would be unwound in its entirety.

Although by very different ways, although, unlike how it has been for Him, for the King, now nothing imponderable may exist for the man, his destiny is marked exactly as it has marked His.

_As to Him, the King, it had happened... _

* * *

The Old Bannerda reaches again his seat. He sits. He looks at us for a moment, before resuming his talk. The light from the window plays on his visage.

"The silence was broken by a scream. Or, perhaps, by a growl? Or by a howl? Maybe we should say by a sound that had never been heard before. A shriek of a beast that only of a beast was not."

The Bannerda does pause a brief moment. We have come to the point.

"Just as the by now lifeless body of the Grim Lord slumped to the ground, right at that moment, another body stood up to its full height, right next to the Great Monarch, still kneeling on the ground. A Ghoul, a huge, slavering Ghoul, the biggest and most powerful of all of them, had slipped, unnoticed in the tension of the moment, until it was close to the Great Monarch, and, even more and more importantly, to the Dark Lord.

Upright on its hind legs, as if it were something different and more than just a Ghoul, it lowered its monstrous muzzle towards the inert body of the late King, as if it were watching him intently.

Then, still standing on its hind legs, it lifted his snout and looked at - yes, it looked at - the Great Monarch.

And the Great Monarch saw his eyes.

Then it threw in the air, again, that inhuman cry that seemed human.

Then it fell back on its four legs.

And then it burst forth.

Like red lightning it ran through the ranks and the beasts towards the exit door of the Great Hall. It passed through it. Its human and bestial yell was heard getting lost in the corridors."

* * *

… _also he, this new Himself, would enjoy the pleasure of having his own mind trapped inside another mind._

* * *

**End of Chapter Twelve**

_With his mind trapped inside another mind. Another fierce, wild, insane mind._

_Devilish, I'd say. You, what do you think, my friends?_

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**In the Hall of the Mountain King**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Twelve**

**_(The Twelfth, after the Prologue - The Thirteenth, counting the Prologue)_**

* * *

_My friends, if I had to say something about this chapter, perhaps, what I should say is "The devil that is in us."_

_Trip doesn't know it yet._

_But Malcolm Reed and Hoshi Sato, the two of them..._

_Well, my friends, do not make me say the least. Please, read._

_It's a short chapter, perhaps too much._

_But it has been impossible for me, at the time, to go further._

_If you want to be so kind to read the chapter, I'm sure you'll understand what I mean to say._

* * *

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

* * *

Mal and I have got it. Really there's no need much more for understanding, now, but I want it to be said. Clearly.

"Excellency, the eyes of the Ghoul that the Grand Monarch had seen..."

"Their colour? That's what you ask?"

I nod.

"Red, just as the eyes of all the Ghouls."

Am I deceiving myself? "Red?"

"But... they had a gleam of blue, inside."

I swallow. "Such as those of the King."

"Yes, Ensign."

"The King had cheated death."

"He did."

"But at a cost frighteningly high."

"For him. And for our people. And…" - His Excellency looks at us thoughtfully. – "For all those who came after. For us. For you all. For the two people disappeared down there."

The Bannerda nods, in a manner... almost as if wanting to nod to himself. "Now we know who you are, I mean… the distinguishing peculiarity of the race to which you belong. We have got it."

I nod in return. Grimly. But even testily. May he be damned, this Bannerda! He and his revealed truth! "Yeah, we know."

"And we also know who are your two friends."

"Yes, Your Excellency, we also know this." One can not say that the voice of Mal is not firm, but certainly not as cold and controlled as it usually resounds.

"Still missing some small tesseras to try to fully figure out what is happening over there, on that planet that is now the abode of the King."

"The abode of the King? How..."

"One moment, Ensign, an instant. One thing at a time."

The Bannerda takes a breath, just a moment, as if trying to put order in his thoughts.

"All that has happened and is happening, the perfect identity of appearance between Lil and the Vulcan woman, your colleague and friend T'Pol; the matching, much more than merely possible, that can be believed existing between the King's physical aspect, the aspect that the King had before his death, and that of your Chief Engineer; the racial memory that you, who have within you the King's blood, that of the race to which he belonged, carry inside you of the thing which he was turned into..."

His Excellency takes a brief pause. He knows he's throwing stones inside us. His hand moves to indicate the book.

"... and that book, which was legend and now is no longer such, all this tell us clearly that that transformation happened for real, and if we remove from it the fantasy patina that covers it, if we look within and beyond the aura of myth that envelops it, we realize that it is not an impossible thing."

His eyebrow gets up as he turns toward us. Somehow, as much as he can be different, he recalls to the mind a Vulcan. Eh, per force!

"The ability to make transmigrate your life-force, your own self, your mind, soul, Katra, or, if you prefer, your neuronal configuration, cerebral structure, synaptic layout, neural interconnection, call it what you want, in the body of another Being is not a trivial matter, but it is not unfeasible. I know for sure that you came across such facts in the course of your explorations."

Mal nods. "It's so, Your Excellency."

"So why not thinking that the King - we're talking about a Being belonging to a race of enormous knowledge - had planned that his own essence could be accepted, _housed_, into another living body, if death were been about to grip his? It is not difficult to think that he really knew well how to control the body and mind of his unwilling host."

"Yeah." Malcolm is sadly sardonic, in speaking. "Why not? Of course, His Greatness the King, or more simply the… yeah, sure… the _infallible _machines programmed by him or by his scientists to act and react in such an eventuality, had not been able to foresee that..."

"…In the urgency to find with indispensable, absolute necessity and speed a body..."

It's me who ends the statement of the Bannerda. I hardly recognize as mine, the voice that speaks. "…The body more easily available, due to its proximity, would have been that of..."

"Of a Ghoul, yes. Of _that_ peculiar Ghoul, to be more precise, the biggest and strongest and wildest of them. The body, _and mind_, of a foul beast..." - The Bannerda pronounces distinctly the words one by one. - "…savage, and loathsome, abhorrent, abominable and fiercely insane."

Mal speaks again, lowering his face. He seems as if talking to himself. "Eh, certainly not the body that the King would have wanted, that's for sure. Never trust the machines, they are brainless." He raises his eyes suddenly. "Sure, the brain. I...I just do not think that the brain of the Ghoul, judging from what you say that these creatures were, could be so easy to control. Indeed... maybe..."

"What you're thinking is correct, Lieutenant."

The brain of the King…"

"Yes, Lieutenant. It plummeted into the blind furor of the brain of the Ghoul…"

"… And it got snapped."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"The King became..."

"…Something much more than a Ghoul..."

"…And much less than..."

"… Less, yes. But above all different, very different from what he had been."

"A..."

I finish what Malcolm has left pending. "A demon. _Savage, and loathsome, abhorrent, abominable and fiercely insane_."

Malcolm takes my hand. "_**The**_ demon."

I clench my Mal's hand. "Yes, Mal. _**The**_ Demon. _**The Devil**_."

The Bannerda nods. Oh my! How appears he burdened! And we, I and Mal, which appearance do we have?

"The look that the Grand Monarch had seen in the eyes of the Ghoul was the look of the King. They were his, those eyes, bloodshot, in whose deep, a tenuous glint of blue flickered, the blue of the King's eyes. It was his, the powerless bewilderment that the Grand Monarch had read in them... the last glimmer of appalled understanding. The King, the nefarious Lord was gone. In his place, even if still with his strength and his brainpower, and possibly even heightened, there was another Being."

His Excellency takes a breath. "A foul beast by the savage mind, and loathsome, abhorrent, abominable and fiercely insane."

Again. He says it again. With even greater force.

"A new and different Ghoul. _Metamorphosed_."

The Bannerda nods again. The infinite time of the passed ages folds her shoulders. "Yes, Lieutenant."

Mal continues. "The Devil." He gazes meaningfully at the old man. "The Devil savage, loathsome, abhorrent, abominable and fiercely insane."

"And damned."

Our eyes alight, quizzical, on the Bannerda. But it's only a futile attempt to delay the painful and fully aware understanding which has already made its way into us.

Without needing to be asked, His Excellency gives body to our thoughts.

"Damned, yes. A Being who should not have been and who instead was, a Being… damned. So you would say, and so it actually was. Damned to be fiercely crazy and to be fiercely and helplessly aware of that, and of what he had been. Damned to know that, imprisoned inside him, there was the King, or rather, what still could there be of the King, namely of him himself, without being able to go back to be this himself. Nevermore. The most darkly shining of the night creatures…"

"Lucifer."

"Yes. Lucifer, Ensign. Now it was…"

"It was..."

I stare at Malcolm. He ends for me, while returning my afraid gaze. "The Devil. _He who is damned. In aeternum."_

The name, _**that**_ name, comes out from me in a sigh of tormenting pain.

"Trip."

* * *

_You are damned, Human._

For the first time the essence of the one who was the King, and, then, of what He was forced to be, speaks directly to the man who is feverishly fumbling to free his woman, that living image, that incarnation of Lil, from her chains, just as the first of the three ordeals requires him to do.

The man can not hear, nor feel those words. They are directed to him, but are words said by the King to Himself.

_You are damned, Human. My damnation is yours._

What that man has managed to do, provides living proof that what He thought was true. The man is really Him, a Him reborn.

Doomed to His same damnation.

However, he is not Him; he is he who has in himself the Him that He was. He is Him and at the same time is not.

But he will fully be back Him. His damnation, the damnation of the man, will be His release.

And through him, He will again have His body, His real body, and the dominion. And the revenge.

And Lil.

_It will be so._

_But…_

Disembodied, low. And sardonic. A laugh. The King, _the Devil_, laughs.

_But not yet. There is still time for your damnation._

The thin and insubstantial laugh grows; it makes itself audible in the minds of the man and of the woman. Little by little gets to permeate everything. Turns into a frightening and deafening laughter.

He had said it. Three are the ordeals that the man must face.

The laughter becomes a thunderous rumble.

And three they be!

_The Devil keeps his word._

If it comes in handy to him.

* * *

"No. Trip is not damned. The fate of the King will not be repeated in him."

Mal does not mince words, is not ambiguous. I admire him. Deeply. Nothing, more than everything that is happening, more than what our minds are forced to accept, to absorb – _to digest_ - could be farther from his rational and well-controlled world, from his mind frame so rooted in the reality, and yet, and maybe just because of his exceptional ability to reduce everything to its essence, to keep his feet - and his head - well firmly on the ground, he has clearly told what I do not have nearly the courage to admit.

He is capable of giving substance and rationality to what has neither substance nor rationality.

Like… like the awareness that the damnation of the King is the damnation of Trip.

Because… Trip _**is**_ the King. And he's damned. As the King. He's ... he's damned to be the Devil, reborn, for real, from the irrational and unsubstantial nightmares of our subconsciously acquainted racial memory!

Just like T'Pol is destined to meet the same fate as Lil. To be the prey of a new King. To...to die like this. Or... or perhaps, and even worse, to live like this! Prey… _of the Devil!_

But my Mal says no! It won't be like that.

He turns with cold determination to the Bannerda. "Continue. We need to understand. But, stop with horror stories, now. We now have clear in mind that we're talking about real things. I want to know, in short, what happened after the transformation of the King, how he ended up, how he did end up there in that mountain, on that world, and why; how and why he has awoken from his, as you say, _sleep which is vigil_. I need to find out if there is a weak point, a slit, where we can thread ourselves."

Then his gaze gets suddenly attentive, more than ever. "You think it is possible to find the slit we need on that book, don't you?"

I look at the book that Mal is pointing. Then at His Excellency.

He nods. "Yes."

Mal presses. "In the pages that are missing."

"It's so."

"This is my assignment, right? Finding where those pages have gone to end."

"Yes."

A malicious flash crosses the eyes of Mal. "Investigating - who knows, maybe... even secretly? - about who and how and why and when has stolen them; and retrieving them."

His Excellency knits his brows in disbelief. And patently uncomfortable. My leery Briton has hit the mark! I do not know how the hell he did to have such a suspicion, but it seems that things are as he said, judging by the uneasy silence of the Bannerda. He cashes without flinching, the significant silence of our… paternalistically bombastic host. "I see. Eh sure. You are aware of my past experiences of... secret detective work, I bet. And you do not have any experience in this field." Mal grins, almost with badness. "What can it know, a people as wise and good as yours, of thefts, robberies and others of such pleasant delights? It's us to have red blood."

"Well, Lieutenant…"

"And Hoshi should be able to find in those pages, if I manage to retrieve them, the slit."

"Oh, you know, she is a great… "

"Translator. Yes, I know. And she is not only that. She is able to unhinge doors locked, thanks to her ability to grasp what lies behind those that seem simple words."

No time to fully realize Mal's compliment, he doesn't allow me to have it. He gets lashing. "In haste, Your Excellency. It is time to act." His lips curl into a smile without humour. "My red blood is going to boil."

* * *

Hugging her, kissing her, feeling her. _Consoling her!_ But it can't be done! Can't be done, damnit! Isn't this which is urgent!

The pain of the vice that clenches her brain - he knows it - no, it can't be removed. Not yet. But it will be. _Oh, if it will be!_ But the pain of the chains that imprison her, of that damn collar... this, yes. **This, yes!** **It has to cease!** At any cost! Regardless of the fact that the first ordeal must be carried out in its entirety, that it was required she were to be freed. She must… _**she must!...**_ be freed from those tormenting chains! From that collar of torture!

Freeing her! This! Yes, this!

But how? How, damn it!

Damn chains! Damn, damn, damn chains! They are real, they. Are true!

How? How, how!

*_You broke the rock, man. You did it! So what? Is it possible that you can not break these chains?_*

The rock? But... of course! The rock!

The stones.

*_The stones._*

Where ... where? Where, damn it! Ah, yes! Here they are.

Over there.

"Trip! Where do you go?"

"One instant, my love! Just one moment. I will be right to you!"

*_Perfect! Small, spiky, sharp. Strong._*

"Here I am, my joy."

"Trip, what …?"

"Do not worry, my love! Be quiet. Do not move. Let me do."

Okay, which ring? This one. Yes, this. It looks yielding.

Here, inside. Just this way.

The two stones are good. Come on, now! Come on!

*_Press, man! Strongly! Widen the ring! Come on! Come on!_*

Yes Yes! It cedes! Cedes!

**Broken!**

*_Ah! The fingers!_*

"Trip!"

"Quiet, my love, calm! Nothing serious."

Another ring, now. Of the chain that imprisons her other leg.

This. Yes, this. In this way. Again!

Come on! Come on!

Yes!

**Broken! It too!**

*_Ow! Damn fingers!"_

"TRIP!"

"T'Pol! Darling! Please! Don't worry! Everything okay."

The chains that hold her wrists now.

One...

*_Yes!_*

And two...!

**Yes!**

*_**Ow!**_*

"Trip! Trip!"

Damnit! Damn weak fingers! To hell! They must function anyway! Understood?

_*__**Understood, my dear hands?**__*_

"Trip! You're breaking your fingers!"

"Just the collar, my love! Just the collar yet!"

"**TRIP!**"

"The collar! Nothing else! I can make it!"

Sure. The collar. But how? It is not enough breaking its chain. Need to take it off from her. She cannot endure longer that damn collar.

How? How...

This ring! This! That one which is just attached to the collar. It fastens the collar, secures it. If one breaks the ring...

Come on! One more effort!

So.

It yields! Yes! The ring is yielding!

Come on! Come on!

**Broken! Broken broken! BROKEN!**

*_Yes! So! Now…*_

His aching hands grasp the two disunited ends of the collar.

*_Push! Pull! Press! Come on! Come on, come on, come on! You do not feel any pain, man!_*

They cede. The two ends cede!

*_Yes. __**Yes!**_*

The iron collar widens. It opens. It can be removed.

It _**is **_removed.

It falls to the ground.

Alongside the two stones stained with the blood of his injured fingers.

And who cares? Almost, he does not even realize.

_She is free._

**His T'Pol is free!**

She kneels. She crouches down next to him. She takes in hers, his wounded hands.

"Trip!"

His pain is even stronger than the vise that clenches her mind.

It is his pain. For her it's intolerable.

She kisses his hurt fingers.

"Trip."

She wets them with her tears.

"Trip."

He kisses her ruffled hair.

"Thank you, my love."

"Trip…."

It is a sob of pain and love.

"Thank you for giving me the strength I need."

"Oh, Trip!"

"You're free now."

She raises her face to his. Her eyes full with tears. Vulcan tears of love for him.

How beautiful she is! _**How beautiful she is!**_

"Ashayam…"

He knows what she wants to say.

"Ashayam, now ..."

She can't continue.

Low. Then louder. Louder and louder. And louder. AND LOUDER!

Deafening!

Lacerating!

A Crazy, wicked, malicious… lashing… laughter.

It fills the mind.

Destroys the flesh.

She gets buffeted by it.

"T'Pol! **T'Pol!**"

The laughter ceases. Its echo gets lost slowly in the distance, under the vaults of stone.

Silence falls.

Everything is unmoving. She, too, is motionless, now. Is no longer shaken.

She is waiting.

Like him.

In the silence, at last, words.

They resonate clear into the empty caves.

Words without body and without substance.

Yet so real.

"**Second ordeal.**"

They ricochet against the rock.

They get lost far away, they too.

The silence comes back.

Then, a few other words.

Low.

And imperious.

An order.

With no appeal.

"**Let it begin**."

* * *

_**End of chapter.**_

_**TBC**_

* * *

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Now have you understood, my friends? Have you understood why I couldn't go further in the narrative?_

_I believe so._

_And now? What will happen? What __**the devil**__ will happen?_


End file.
